


H A Z E L D I N E

by zombeesknees



Category: Hazeldine, Original Work
Genre: (makeup and dresses can ABSOLUTELY be for men), (slight) hurt and (lots of) comfort, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Found Families, Genre Cross-Over, Historical, Horror, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, Romance, Werewolves, Western, a veritable cornucopia of kryptonite tropes, and schmoopiness, badass sex workers, blatant and unapologetic self-indulgence, delicately handled mental illness and neuroatypical characters, empowered ladies, gender non-conforming babes, grumpy meets sunshiny, love crossing cultural divides, magic and mayhem, magic but with rules, magical trans-formations, matter-of-fact disabilities, messenger hares and salamander familiars, ot3s, prophecies and fate shenanigans, queer marriages, shape-shifters, smut - lots and lots of smut, tols and smols, towns powered by acceptance and love, witches and other assorted weirdos, wounded people finding happiness and a sense of home, zero sex shaming, zero victim blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2020-06-22 06:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 99
Words: 171,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: On the edges of the Wild West, in a remote and rugged area of Wyoming, is a small frontier town: Hazeldine.The residents are hardy, independent — and rather eccentric. While cowboys patrol the range, tending to cattle and sheep, witches openly sell their wares on Main Street. Shapeshifters prowl the night. The saloon is haunted. Gamblers have magic as well as luck on their side, and the farmers arereallyin tune with the earth.It's a place some are drawn to, like Celeste Preston, a not-so-merry widow on a deadly mission. And it's a place where everyone can find a place to belong, no matter how many teeth (or fangs, or claws) they have.Hazeldine is where the weird meets the Old West.





	1. PART ONE - THE NEW ARRIVAL

****

**T H E C A S T**

  * Celeste Preston (Brie Larson) – a murderess.
  * Lotte Barton (Ashley Graham) – the saloonkeeper of the Pax Parley.
  * Charles (Sam Elliott) – a stagecoach driver.
  * Josie Barton (Karen Allen) – the cook at the Pax Parley.
  * Cottonwood “Cotton” Webster (Matthew Lillard) – a deputy.
  * Rodrigo Christopher François y Alvarez (Vincent Perez) – a banker.
  * Seung Bae (Byung Hun Lee) – a gambler/sharp-shooter.
  * Dr. Hermann Pendergast (Paul Giamatti) – a doctor/barber.
  * Jenny East (Jodie Comer) – a hedgewitch.
  * Yvonne Bae (Pom Klementieff) – a matchmaker/reporter.
  * Yi Ze (Jessica Henwick) \
  * Yu Jie (Gemma Chan) / sisters who own the Jade and Pearl Tea Room.
  * Nova (Chella Man) – Doc’s 18-year-old adopted son/apprentice.
  * Wint Boessenecker (Jim Beaver) – a (former) woodcarver.
  * Brunhilda “Hildy” Gruben (Gwendoline Christie) – a brothel madame.
  * Liesel Gruben (Elizabeth Debicki) – a schoolteacher.
  * Liberty “Libby” Hawk (Zazie Beetz) – a “pillow-warmer”.
  * Abraham “Bram” Hawk (Winston Duke) – owner of _The Hazeldine Hawk_.
  * Ianto Llewellyn (Kim Coates) – a handyman.
  * George Godfrey (David Harbour) – owner of Godfrey’s Goods.
  * Valentine Collins (Fran Kranz) – a deputy.
  * Herschel Gillenwater (Will Patton) – a rancher.
  * Miguel San Toro (Danny Trejo) – a rancher.
  * Will Tupelo (Anthony Ruivivar) – the mayor.
  * Hawley Tupelo (Lou Diamond Phillips) – an undertaker.
  * Boston Drake (John Boyega) – a cowboy.
  * Javier Nuñez (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo) – a cowboy.
  * Filipa Sanchez (Eréndira Ibarra) – a cowgirl.
  * Luisa Mariposa (Salma Hayek) – a cowgirl.
  * Rachel Campbell (Millicent Simmonds) – a 15-year-old farmer’s daughter.
  * James Campbell (Nyle DiMarco) – a farmer.
  * Rosanna Tupelo (Ashley Callingbull) – the sheriff.
  * Greer Perdillo (Gina Carano) – the blacksmith.
  * Blythe Carlyle (Jordana Brewster) – a seamstress.
  * Caleb Rutledge (Kevin Durand) – the postman.
  * Leland Rutledge (Kris Kristofferson) – a scientist.
  * Emmett Ingram (Michael Sheen) – a farmer.
  * Morgan Mayne (Indya Moore) – the town druid.
  * Pete Steele (Ben Foster) – a cowboy.
  * Nellie Hoobler (Amandla Stenberg) – a witch.
  * Luther Dupree (Jeff Fahey) – a woodsman.
  * Odessa Pavelich (Margo Martindale) – a brewer.
  * Snori Sorensen (Bill Fagerbakke) – a pig farmer.
  * Avonlea Reynolds (Madison Curry) – a mischievous eight-year-old.
  * Jeb Dunne (Mahershala Ali) – a cowboy.
  * Eduardo Ruiz (Pedro Pascal) - the notary public/record-keeper.
  * Jessika Dupree (Angela Bassett) - a laundress/fisherwoman.
  * Zane Dupree (Michael B. Jordan) - the Duprees' son, traveling Outside.
  * Qu Tran (Tzi Ma) - a chicken farmer.
  * Annamaria Doherty (Billie Piper) - a fashionable divorcee.
  * Bobbie Lacy (Billy Porter) - the milliner/haberdasher.
  * Leah Ginsberg (Jenny Slate) - a potter.
  * Chen Tran (Wang Yibo) - a teenaged fenghuang.
  * John "Blackjack" Solomon (Jon Bernthal) - a cardsharp.
  * Ming-Wa Zhou (Justin Min) - a farrier.
  * Ellen Hegel (Luca Hollestelle) - a textile witch.
  * Beverly Layton (Tessa Thompson) - a farmer's wife.
  * Cricket Katz (Ezra Miller) - the record's hall clerk.
  * Xiang Tran (Lucy Liu) - a fenghuang.



**P A R T O N E — T H E N E W A R R I V A L**

Wyoming was greener than Nevada.

Then again, she mused, everything was greener than Nevada. It would be nice to breathe air that wasn’t constantly full of dust.

Nevada had more people, though, and towns. Visible hallmarks of civilization. All Wyoming seemed to have was swells of grass, lowing big-horned cattle, and thousands of sheep. Since the coach had left Bitter Creek three hours earlier, she’d seen perhaps six men on horses, their features and race obscured by the requisite wide-brimmed hats, barely more animated than the placid cattle they watched.

The stagecoach’s wheels dipped into a deep furrow and she swayed violently, one hand bracing against the door while the other kept tight hold of her worn carpetbag. From within came the telltale clink of bottles. Her tools of the trade, as it were. She must not have wrapped them well enough for the journey. She’d have to be more careful next time.

Necessity called for this nomadic lifestyle, but she didn’t really enjoy it. The constant packing and unpacking and repacking. These interminable, uncomfortable hours spent rattling along bumpy trails first carved by optimistic pioneers. The cramped confines of coaches that always smelled like other – usually unwashed – people.

This one wasn’t as bad as most, though. It was roomy, with space for six; currently, she was the only occupant. It was sturdy and well-kept, the hard seats padded with canvas cushions that had become downy soft over years of use. The curtains that could be drawn over the windows smelled of something tangy and faintly medicinal, like sage, rather than the stink of cheap cigars. And the soles of her shoes rested against clean boards; not once had she felt the crunch of an insect or peanut shell underfoot.

The driver was one of the friendliest she’d encountered, as well. When she’d stepped out of her hotel in Bitter Creek, carpetbag in hand, and set her suitcase by her feet to catch her breath, he’d pulled up as if summoned and looked down at her with a smile.

Well, a luxurious white moustache completely covered his mouth, but the crinkling around his bright blue eyes was unmistakable.

“Where’re you headed to, miss?” he asked in a deep, mellow drawl.

“Little place called Hazeldine.”

“Somehow, I just knew you’d say that,” he chuckled, swinging down from his seat and taking her suitcase. He was tall and lean, rangy and weathered in that way so many prospectors and cowboys were. The oddest thing about him was the way he was dressed: like an undertaker rather than a driver, not in buckskins and plaid but in a faded black jacket and trousers, a snow white shirt beneath his ebony waistcoat, a bolo tie neatly knotted at his collar. His hat was black, too, a felt Stetson with a wide brim that cast his wrinkled face and shaggy white hair into shadow.

In the last six years, she’d become adept at reading men. Sensing when the smiling façade was just that: a benevolent mask covering a violent or greedy heart. She could tell when a man was going out of his way because he wanted something dear.

But the driver set off none of her internal alarms. All she could sense from him was sincerity, and his warm voice was downright soothing. He carefully tied her case to the top rack of the coach, opened the door, and offered her his hand in a courtly fashion.

“Don’t I pay you first?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

“No payment until we reach your destination,” he replied. “That’s always been my policy.”

“Then aren’t we going to wait for other passengers? The trip can’t be worth it if you’re just taking me.”

“Not a lot of folks go to Hazeldine. And there’s nothing between here and there. You’re my only fare for the day, Miss…”

“Harper. Sally Harper,” she lied smoothly. That was what her last husband had called her. What the next one expected.

The driver looked at her, those blue eyes bright as polished sapphires, and for a wild heartbeat she was sure he knew the truth. Those eyes saw straight through her affected charm, right into her heart, and just _knew_.

Then he blinked, and tipped the brim of his hat to her politely, just another old man who drove a stagecoach to keep body and soul together, and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Harper. You can call me Charles. Just about everybody does these days.”

His hand was warm and callused beneath her fingers as he helped her into the coach and waited for her to arrange her skirts. “How long of a drive is it, Charles?”

“Near four hours. The folks of Hazeldine like their privacy.”

“Apparently. Small, is it? I noticed it wasn’t on any of the official maps yet.”

“It’s a tight-knit community. The people pride themselves on their self-sufficiency. And their individuality. There’s a place for everyone and everyone’s in their place, in Hazeldine.”

Charles touched his hat again and shut the door gently, swinging up into his seat with the ease and grace of a much younger man. The four horses – two black, two white – tossed their heads as he flicked the reins with a soft, “Hey-up.”

She glanced down at the small pocket watch pinned to her pine green blouse. They had to be close now. Time for her final preparations. It was important to make a good first impression.

Out of the carpetbag came a small bottle labeled “vanilla extract”. Unlike most of the bottles in her possession, this one actually contained what the label said it did. She dabbed a touch at her neck, behind each ear, and on her wrists before she tucked it away and carefully drew a brush through her thick, wheat-hued hair. It tended to curl when left to its own devices, giving her a girlish air when unbound.

She considered the tone of John Godfrey’s letter – would he prefer girlish? No, he sounded like a practical older man, someone who had little patience with coquettish behavior or half-grown girls. Better to come across as mature and capable, a no-nonsense woman who would be ready to handle the store’s accounts and heft thirty-pound bags of feed. Smiling grimly, she pulled it all back into a tight braid, smoothing the flyaway strands down with several hairpins.

She unfastened the obsidian brooch securing her black lace shawl – her usual concession to mourning – and folded it carefully so it would be unwrinkled when she donned it next. Pulled the cheap wedding band off her left hand, grateful this one hadn’t turned her finger green, and dropped it into the inner pocket with the others. Smoothed and straightened her linen blouse and brown wool skirt; they weren’t the height of fashion, but they weren’t cheaply made or too worn yet. In them, she looked like any other virtuous young woman from a decent family seeking out a new life.

There were hundreds just like her flooding the West: newly-arrived immigrants, eldest daughters tired of grimy Eastern cities, upper-class girls fallen on hard times thanks to wastrel fathers, teachers and nurses dreaming of adventure on the rugged frontier, women afraid of becoming spinsters and desperate for husbands…

Except she wasn’t _just_ like all of those women. She had been like them once. Six years ago. An orphan working in a stifling, dangerous factory for pennies a week. A twenty-year-old with one true friend in the entire city – Sibyl, the sweetest girl who had ever smiled – who had answered an ad for a mail-order bride, hopeful and optimistic and hungry for a new life far, far away from the smoke and noise of New York.

And for one year, life had been good.

Mason drank a little too much, yes, and was rough with his hands. But he did what he promised. He gave her a new life. Clothes. A house of her own. Work in the clean, fresh air growing vegetables and tending chickens. He even paid to have Sibyl come stay with them and offered to help her find a job in town, so she could move to Missouri and always be near. She’d thought her heart would burst with happiness.

And then it did burst.

Just not with happiness.

She walked through the door with a basket of vegetables, eager to start preparing dinner, and found Sibyl lying on the kitchen floor, skirts twisted around her knees, brown eyes staring into eternity. Mason was kneeling over her, panting, face red with drink and hands red from choking the life from her.

“You tried to fight me,” he muttered when he realized she was standing there. “You should’ve just let me have my way.”

She looked into his ruddy, alcohol-dulled face and saw a monster. A monster that had mistaken Sibyl for her. Gone was the man, the convenient husband. This was a beast crouched over his kill, as unrepentant as any wild animal.

Without a word, without expression, she dropped her basket.

Took the knife from the table.

And slit his throat.

It proved far easier than slaughtering pigs.

Then she knelt beside Sibyl, covered in her husband’s warm blood, and sobbed. For minutes, for hours, who knew? She cried until she had no more tears to cry and then she kissed Sibyl’s forehead and stood up. Threw off her bloody dress and donned a clean one. Shoved clothes, jewelry, and all the money in the house into her carpetbag.

She doused the lanterns and locked the door. Went to the barn and opened the cow’s stall, the gate to the pigs’ pen, the wire door of the chicken coop. The farm was more than two miles outside of town and they rarely saw their nearest neighbor. She had enough time to disappear.

And she’d turned disappearing into an art as she pursued her new calling. For six years she had hunted men. Answered ads and propositions. The lonely and harmless she walked away from, taking only some of their money to compensate her for her time.

But the angry? The violent, the demanding, the heartless? She punished them for their cruelty with cruelty in kind. She was a widow thirteen times over now, though none of her husbands ever knew this, and generously gave most of her inheritances to charities and schools, reserving a tidy sum for her “retirement” under a name she had never worn.

Though she doubted if she would – could – ever stop. Some nights, she thought the anger and sorrow in her breast would burn forever, like hellfire, and she knew she was damned. The monstrous had made her a monster, too.

But she couldn’t stop. Not when she still saw Sibyl’s face every time she closed her eyes. Not when she knew there were others like Mason out there, abusing and using and killing women because they thought they were owed more.

Not when she could stop them.

Celeste Preston tugged the fine gold chain up from beneath her collar and kissed the tiny cross that never left her neck. It had been Sibyl’s, her most prized possession. Now it was Celeste’s talisman and compass, the precious reminder that kept her focused on her work.

“Let’s see what kind of a man you are, John Godfrey,” she whispered, looking down at the latest envelope tucked into her bag.

***

Leaning forward as the breeze caressed her face, Celeste could see the square shapes of manmade construction growing clearer on the immediate horizon – and looming behind the doll-sized town was an immense butte, craggy and rocky at the edges but rounded and mossy green at its peak. It was too big and wide to be considered a hill, not quite tall enough to be a mountain.

“They call him ‘the Grandfather’,” Charles called back from his seat without turning around. “The local tribe is very protective of him.”

Celeste disliked when people used “him” or “her” to ascribe personhood to inanimate objects when so many actual people were still considered possessions. But in this case, she wouldn’t argue. The mound _felt_ like a he.

On the edges of town, bracketing the brown ribbon of the wagon trail, were small farms with carefully plowed fields and clumps of fruit-bearing trees clustered close to rough-hewn cabins. Some were only a handful of years old, new enough in construction for the wood to be unseasoned – but then so much in the West was newly constructed, as more settlers pushed further into lands that had always been wild in search of gold or silver or fertile farmland.

As they rolled by the last farm, a signpost appeared. But it was like no signpost Celeste had ever seen before: it was a massive lightning-struck oak tree that had split in two, and someone had thrust a board between the halves, the words burned black into the reddish wood:

**| H A Z E L D I N E |**

**FREE, FORGIVING, HOME**

A lovely, welcoming sentiment. Which was completely spoiled by the dozens of skulls hanging from the tree’s gnarled branches. Cow, deer, goat, horse, bird… Celeste stared with wide eyes as they passed – at least there didn’t seem to be any human bones in the collection. As the breeze picked up, long strings of feathers, beads, and tufts of fur fluttered in place of leaves.

Charles didn’t offer an explanation.

Several dogs began barking as the stagecoach left the uneven ruts of the trail and picked up speed on the smoother, harder packed main street of Hazeldine. Celeste noted a long store with a chair-dotted porch that boasted **GODFREY’S GOODS** in five-foot-tall gilt letters. The red-and-white spiraled pole in front of the doctor/barber’s office. A brightly painted tea shop with Chinese characters written beneath the English legend. The formidable-looking bank with its barred windows and door. As they passed each building, more and more people stepped out into the bright spring sunlight to stare.

The coach came to a stop in front of what had to be the most popular saloon – it was the town’s largest structure, a full three stories. Celeste stared up at the sign hanging from the red awning with a frown.

“The Pax Parley?” she said as Charles opened her door. “Did they mean to put ‘parlor’?”

“Roughly translated, it means ‘peace talks’,” said a cheerful voice. Charles stepped aside with another moustache-hidden smile to reveal a buxom, plump, beautiful young woman with a thick mass of auburn hair pulled up into a wilting bun. Taller than Celeste by an inch or two, she was also wearing a brown skirt – though hers had a generous slit that revealed a brown boot and thick calf – and a man’s white shirt tucked into a broad leather belt. “Welcome to Hazeldine. I’m Lotte Barton, proprietress of the Pax.” She held her hand out with a smile. “My saloon’s neutral territory, meaning any and everyone is welcomed and safe here. Do you need a room for the night?”

“Well, uh,” Celeste began slowly as she shook Miss Barton’s hand. There were an awful lot of eyes staring at her, from every direction. She’d been to smaller towns than this and hadn’t garnered such unwanted scrutiny; in her line of work, being noticed made everything more difficult. 

“Try to ignore them,” Miss Barton said firmly. “Newcomers are rarer than diamonds here, so we’re all nosier than we should be. Shall we go inside and have a drink? Something to get the taste of stagecoach out of your mouth?”

“I left Miss Preston’s suitcase right inside the door, Lotte,” Charles said with another gentlemanly tilt of his hat.

“Thank you, Charles. Sure you don’t want a drink before you go?”

“Much obliged, Lotte, but no.” The slender driver stepped up to his seat.

“Wait,” Celeste said quickly, reaching into her bag, “I haven’t paid you!”

“Don’t worry, Miss Preston,” those pale blue eyes twinkled. “You will. I hope you enjoy your stay in Hazeldine. Hey-up.”

The horses lunged forward and the coach rolled swiftly down the street. The dust kicked up by the wheels obscured the old man from view just as Celeste realized he’d called her Preston, not Harper, and felt the hairs stand up along her neck.

“What’ll it be?” Miss Barton asked matter-of-factly, shattering the surreal moment. The woman exuded an earthiness that left no room for flights of fancy. “Whiskey, beer, tequila, wine? You name it, we probably got it – we’re very proud of our selection at the Pax.”

***

The saloon was as impressively stocked as Miss Barton said: the three tiered shelves beneath the thirty-foot-long mirror that stretched the full length of the bar held hundreds of bottles of varying sizes and shapes. Pops of red, blue, and green stood out from the predominately brown and gold sea.

“Charles said your name’s Preston?” Miss Barton asked as she set down two spotless glasses, reached blindly for a bottle over her shoulder, and uncorked it with a satisfying _pop!_ She poured a double shot in each glass.

Celeste took a slow sip from hers to buy herself time while her mind raced. She hadn’t used her birth name in seven years, and authorities in Missouri would know her as Celeste Sullivan. Given how remote Hazeldine was, and the general lawlessness of the West, what were the odds someone would find out she was here, after all this time?

Of course, John Godfrey would be expecting Sally Harper, not Celeste Preston, but she could talk her way out that. Explain Sally was a friend who got cold feet or something. Given her face and figure, she doubted he’d be unwilling to accept her in exchange – she knew how to weaponize her beauty when she needed to.

“…Yes,” she said finally, a little breathlessly, as if the strong liquor had temporarily stolen her voice. “Celeste Preston.”

“And what brings you to Hazeldine?” The saloonkeeper’s voice was casual but the gaze she fixed on her was direct. This was a sharp, observant woman. Those were the hardest people to hoodwink.

Time to fight fire with fire. If she wanted to be direct, she could give her direct.

“A husband,” Celeste said. “I’m here to answer a want ad.”

“You’re a mail-order bride?” Miss Barton hesitated. “Somehow you don’t strike me as the type.”

“What, starry-eyed? In my experience, most of the women who answer these sorts of ads are pragmatic. We want a steady life, a guaranteed home, the chance to have a family. We’re not romantics in search of a Romeo.”

“Never did like that story,” Miss Barton said. “Foolish kids killing themselves because they think they’re in love after a couple days. Not my idea of a good story.”

“I agree. Love is a bad fairy tale.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” the woman countered sharply with a knowing grin, lifting her glass again. Celeste’s eye fell on a gold band as it caught the light and she realized Miss Barton wasn’t actually a miss.

And yet she operated a saloon? Her husband must be a very modern thinker.

“So, who’s the lucky man you’re hitching yourself to? Gotta say, I’m surprised to hear anyone here sent away for a wife he’s never even met before. We’re a pretty close community.”

“Mr. John Godfrey,” Celeste replied.

Miss Barton’s smile instantly vanished. “Oh.”

Celeste’s heart rose while her face remained perfectly calm. Clearly Godfrey was a bastard of the highest order, if this warm woman’s cheerfulness disappeared at the mere mention of his name. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so. You’d better come with me, Miss Preston…”

***

Celeste stared down at the wooden cross emblazoned with

**JOHN H. GODFREY**

**REQUIESCAT IN PACE**

**HE WILL BE MISSED**.

“…This isn’t some sort of sick joke, is it?”

“I’m afraid not. Heart attack. He died right at his counter, arguing with Deputy Webster over the cost of a shirt short a button. It didn’t come as a big surprise to anyone – the man practically drank bacon grease and argued like it was his second job. Plus, he was creeping up on seventy.”

“And when did this happen?”

“Three days ago. The funeral was yesterday. My father-in-law – he’s the undertaker – made his coffin out of fresh-cut pine and packed it with clean sawdust, so at least he was sent off right.”

“I’m sure your father-in-law did a lovely job of it,” Celeste said dully. She’d just arrived and now there was no reason for her to be here. All that planning and traveling, for _nothing_. And she didn’t even have the next fish baited and hooked yet.

“I’m sorry, Miss Preston.” Miss Barton laid a reassuring hand on her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s head back to the Pax, hmm? We’ll figure something out for you, don’t worry. John Godfrey wasn’t the only bachelor in town, and some of them are far more eligible for you than he was.”

Celeste nodded slowly. That was a good point. Men willing to marry complete strangers may be more mercenary than most, but that didn’t mean they were the only ones worthy of her special attention. “Thank you, Miss Barton.”

“Please, call me Lotte. And can I call you Celeste? We’re an informal lot in Hazeldine; I’m sure you’ll make friends in no time...”


	2. Chapter 2

Her room at the Pax Parley was undoubtedly the best rented space she’d ever had. She admired it, refreshed by her nap, as she redressed. The brass bed frame was sturdy. The mattress may have been lumpy and stuffed with straw, but it was clean straw and the canvas was thick enough that it didn’t prickle through the sheets, which were well-washed and smelled faintly of lavender. The walls were papered with a rose pattern and the white curtains at the window were lace. The wooden dresser had been recently polished and the floorboards beneath the knotted rag rug were waxed. The chamber pot under the bed was porcelain, as was the pitcher and bowl atop the dresser, and nailed to one wall on a braided red rope was a small mirror at just the right height to check her hair.

She may be stuck here for the time being, but at least she’d be comfortable.

As she descended the stairs with one hand gripping the skirt of her fresh blue dress, Celeste saw Lotte speaking earnestly behind the bar to a middle-aged woman in an apron. When the woman glanced up and met her gaze, smiling widely, the resemblance was obvious: this must be Lotte’s mother. Nevermind the five-inch difference in their heights and that she was thin and bird-like where Lotte was amply filled-out: they had identical smiles and the same kind eyes.

“Hello, dear,” the older woman said, coming toward her with outstretched hands and a cloud of maternal reassurance. The long braid draped over her shoulder had streaks of grey in it, but plenty of the original auburn remained. “Lotte just told me about your situation. What rotten luck. I’m her mother, Josie Barton. Is there anything special I can make for you tonight?”

“Ma’s the cook,” Lotte explained as Josie clasped Celeste’s hands. “And a witch in the kitchen.”

“My little gift’s always been cookery,” Josie said bashfully, dimpling when she grinned. “How about… potato and leek soup, hmm? With sourdough bread?”

Celeste blinked. That had always been Sibyl’s favorite meal, their Friday dinner when they lived together in New York. It was impossible to speak around the lump in her throat. All she could do was nod mutely.

“Oh, darling, it’ll be okay,” Josie murmured, patting her cheek gently. “All wounds heal with enough time. And I don’t think John would’ve been a good fit for you – he was a grumpy old man, so set in his ways. You would’ve found him dreadfully dull and cantankerous. I’m sure he only placed that ad because he wanted someone pretty to nurse him in his old age and didn’t want to actually pay for it, the cheapskate.”

And with that cynical opinion of the dead stated so bluntly, Josie smiled again and piped, “I’ll just go put that sourdough to rise now!” before bustling through the nearest door.

“Ma doesn’t believe in dwelling. Or in hiding how she feels.”

“Are all the women in this town so blunt?”

“Unfortunately,” drawled a slightly nasal voice. “At least we still outnumber them. For now.”

“Shut up, Web,” Lotte retorted without any real heat, scooping an olive from a jar and pelting the lanky man with it. The green globe bounced off his wide forehead as he belatedly ducked. He maturely stuck his tongue out as he straightened to his full height. “Celeste Preston,” Lotte added, “this is Deputy Cotton Webster.”

“The man who gave my intended a heart attack?”

“Whoa, wait, what?” the man spluttered, narrow face flushing a hectic red. He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow, pushing shaggy brown hair back from the crease marking where his hat usually sat. “It is _not_ my fault Mr. Godfrey croaked while we were talking!”

Celeste sized him up: taller than average, clumsy feet judging by the scuffs all over his boots, belt fastened at the first notch and barely supporting the gun holstered at his hip, checkered blue and white shirt that hung loose off his shoulders, tarnished deputy badge pinned to his breast pocket, hint of a patchy beard growing in a shade redder than his hair, long nose, hangdog eyes. If he stayed out of the sun, he’d fade to a milky white; as it was, his tan was spotty with sunburns. Definitely some Irish in his background.

“Miss Preston and Mr. Godfrey had been writing,” Lotte explained. “Arranging their marriage. And she just got here an hour ago.”

“Boy, that’s bad timing,” Deputy Webster said, then shook his head sharply. “Lord, I’m sorry, miss! That was awful of me to say! I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“I didn’t really know the man,” Celeste said before she could think. Wait. Why was she trying to reassure this strange person? Was it because he looked so laughably awkward?

“If I’d known asking for a five cent discount on that shirt would’ve given Mr. Godfrey a heart attack, I wouldn’t have asked,” the deputy insisted earnestly. “But it was missing a button! Do you think it’s fair to charge full price on something that’s incomplete? It would’ve been different if I had a spare button at home I could just sew on myself, but I don’t, and Mr. Godfrey charges five cents for a bag of buttons – and I didn’t even _need_ a bag of buttons, just the one button—”

“Web, where’s Val?” Lotte interrupted gently but firmly.

“At the lock-up,” Webster replied.

“Did he send you over here to get some sandwiches?”

“Yeah, he sure did.”

“Alright, I’ll ask Ma to make you some sandwiches while you sit down here and have a big glass of water.”

While the deputy drank his water, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly, Lotte leaned close to Celeste. “When Web gets worked up about something, it’s a good idea to calm him down quickly, before he gets into a real state.”

“And he’s a deputy? Who carries a gun?”

“He’s usually fine. We just haven’t had a good rain in a while, and he gets edgy when it’s dry.”

“…Why?”

“Long story – good afternoon Mr. Alvarez. Right on time. Your usual?”

“Please, Lotte.” The man who slid onto the stool between Deputy Webster and Celeste had skin that gleamed gold in the afternoon sun spilling through the windows. His shoulder-length hair was dark brown save for a hint of white at his temples. A three-piece grey serge suit was perfectly tailored to a body that was slim but muscular, and his accessories – tie pin, pocket watch and chain, a thick ring on his right thumb – were all gold. He glanced over at Celeste, sensing her appraisal, and flashed a smile, displaying pearly teeth. “Hello. You arrived this morning.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Rodrigo Christopher François y Alvarez.” He gave her hand a single, firm shake; the skin pressed to her fingers was unexpectedly rough given his fine attire. “I own the Hazeldine First Bank and Trust.” He nodded at Lotte as she set down a tall green glass that appeared to be steaming. “Will you be opening an account with us?”

“Perhaps. I don’t have much in terms of savings.”

“Ah, but that is where my bank would help. Any money you deposit with us will only grow with interest.” The man’s dark eyes seemed to gleam with an inner light. The only way to describe his expression was “hungry”.

“Careful, Celeste,” Lotte warned, walking back from setting a water pitcher at Webster’s elbow. “Mr. Alvarez loves nothing more than to talk money. He’ll natter your ear right off about dividends and investments. I’ll be back in a jiff – gotta tell Ma to make those sandwiches.”

“It is true that I am passionate when it comes to finance. But it is not in my nature to be careless with gold; I would die before I made unwise decisions with anyone’s money.”

“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Alvarez, you have an unusual accent…”

“For a man of my coloring? Yes, my father was a Mexican, but my mother was French. I spent my earliest years in Paris and Switzerland. I speak four languages quite fluently as a result –”

“Five if you count ‘prig’.”

The handsome banker’s smile became fixed but he refused to turn. “Mr. Bae,” he said in the chilliest of tones, “you are not scheduled to be here for another hour.”

“Hang the schedule. I wanted to meet the new addition.” A black glove stretched over Mr. Alvarez’s shoulder toward Celeste. It belonged to an attractive Asian man whose ebony hair had been pulled back into a small bun. The picture of a louche desperado, his fine clothes were artfully disheveled, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up past his bronze elbows, the fingertips of his gloves cut off, waistcoat half-buttoned and belt hanging low with the weight of a pearl-handled Colt revolver. “Seung Bae,” he introduced with a roguish smirk, lifting Celeste’s hand to kiss her knuckles. “Gambler, sharp-shooter, and the most interesting man in town.”

“Most depraved,” Mr. Alvarez muttered sourly.

“And you are?” Mr. Bae prompted, breath hot on the back of her hand.

“Miss Celeste Preston,” she said evenly with a polite smile. Her expression was perfectly neutral. “May I have my hand back, sir?”

“Should you need any excitement while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to ask,” the man murmured as he stepped back.

“I’m sure Miss Preston has no need for your so-called excitement,” Mr. Alvarez said firmly. “Clearly, she is a lady of fine quality and taste.”

“Pull the stick out of your—”

“Seung Bae, if you don’t get right this moment, I’m calling your sister,” Lotte announced briskly, marching out of the kitchen with a plate piled high with ham and cheese sandwiches. “You know the arrangement. Now get.”

Flashing Celeste a final incorrigible grin, the man slapped his black square hat on and sauntered out of the saloon, the silver spurs on his black boots clanging musically.

“That man is extremely bad news, Miss Preston,” Mr. Alvarez said emphatically. “I advise you to avoid him at all costs. If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting back to the bank.” He finished the last of his odd drink, nodded politely, and hurried out onto the street on the heels of Deputy Webster, leaving with his sandwiches.

“Those two are oil and water,” Lotte explained. “Or more like gunpowder and a match. Can’t stand the sight of one another. We had to make up a schedule to make sure they never come in at the same time – I’m adamant about this place being neutral ground, but they just can’t help themselves, and the damages were getting too steep for either to cover.”

“You certainly have some interesting people in Hazeldine,” Celeste said. “Though I’m starting to feel like a two-headed calf.”

“It’s been months since anyone new has arrived. And it doesn’t help that you’re a pretty, unattached lady. If it’s too much to bear, I can bring a tray up to your room so you can eat dinner in peace. The next hour or so, most of town will come in for a drink, and everyone will be a nuisance with their eagerness to welcome you.”

Celeste realized she was smiling. And it was an unforced, natural smile. She _liked_ this plain-speaking young woman who was so comfortable in her own skin, who talked fondly of her neighbors even as she ordered them around with all the assurance of a general. Lotte Barton didn’t know her from Eve, yet she had immediately and cheerfully accepted her.

Before she could demur or accept the offer, the door swung open again and a rotund man in brown tweed entered with a boisterous, “ _Guten tag!_ ”

“Afternoon, Doc. It’s potato and leek soup tonight.”

“Ah, stupendous!” The man clapped his hands together and rubbed them with a grin nearly eclipsed by his enthusiastic facial hair. The auburn beard stretched to the top button of his waistcoat, as if his chin was trying to make up for the barren expanse at his crown. Thick muttonchops met together in a moustache that was threaded with grey; he had to be in his fifties. He glanced at Celeste and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, jacket pulling back to reveal red suspenders. “Hello there.”

“Hello.”

“Doc Pendergast, this is Miss Preston. Celeste, Doc here is our sawbones and barber. He can have your appendix out in five minutes and your hair coiffed in seven.”

“I’ve heard Germans were famous for their precision.”

“ _Ja_ , I pride myself on it,” the man said in a thick, baritone accent, brown eyes half-hidden by good-natured crinkles.

“How’s Nova doing?” Lotte asked.

“Ah, the boy is like a sponge. A veritable sponge! Everything he reads,” the doctor snapped his fingers, “just like that, it is in his head forever. He is a fine assistant who will be a great doctor one day.”

“James told me he’s as sharp as Rachel at his lessons, which is high praise indeed. Oh, Jenny!” Lotte called sharply as a shadow passed the doorway. A slender young woman with hair the same shade of yellow as her dress stepped back and peered through the gap.

“Yes, Lot?”

“Favor to ask. Would you give Celeste a quick tour of town? Show her the lay of the land before dinner? Maybe keep her moving so she doesn’t get swarmed by too many folks at once?”

“Ooh, so you’re the newcomer,” the woman said with a crooked grin. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

“Celeste Preston, Jenny East. Jenny’s our…”

“Hedgewitch,” the woman finished smoothly, brushing a long strand of hair behind an ear that was studded with a dozen silver earrings and dangling charms. “Anything Doc can’t handle, I’m your girl. I specialize in charms and breeding the town’s finest ratters.” To underscore her point, she pulled the blanket back from the basket on her arm to reveal two calico kittens. “I was just on my way to deliver these to Yu Jie.”

“How precious,” Celeste said, stroking the fuzzy, mewling creatures.

“So long as you’re not afraid I’ll steal your soul, you’re welcomed to join me,” Jenny said lightly.

“I _would_ like to see the town. And I’m not sure if I believe in souls, so I reckon I’ll be safe,” Celeste countered, earning an approving glance from the unusual woman.

***

“First things first, I need to thank you,” Jenny said as they strode down the wooden walkway connecting the storefronts. Their heels clacked in near perfect unison.

“Thank me? For what?”

“For coming to town. Another pretty, unmarried blonde? Maybe it’ll get some of the men off my heels. This last month, I’ve felt like a honey jar in a cloud of flies. I made the mistake of telling Yvonne I’d been lonely and, naturally, her big mouth had to spread that all over town. Learn from my mistake: don’t share _anything_ with Yvonne Bae that you don’t want all of Hazeldine to know by sunset.”

“That would be Mr. Bae’s sister?”

Jenny glanced at her. “Of _course_ you’ve already met Seung.”

“And Mr. Alvarez, who told me to avoid him at all costs.”

“Those two,” Jenny snorted in an unladylike fashion. “If not for Yvonne they would’ve killed each other years ago. Seung’s not _dangerous_. You don’t need to be frightened of him. He just likes to have fun. Preferably noisy fun, and Mr. Alvarez is a man who places a high value on peace and quiet. Prides himself on his composure – and Seung enjoys smashing it all to smithereens. Anyway, I’m supposed to be giving you the grand tour. That’s obviously the bank, Mr. Alvarez’s lair. He only leaves to sleep and to get his four o’clock drink at the Pax. You can set your watch by him. Next door is the sheriff’s office and jail with its almost-permanently-empty cells, where you can always find Deputies Webster and Collins, usually playing cards or horseshoes.”

“Hazeldine’s a peaceful place, is it?”

The look the self-professed witch gave her was a curious one. “Mostly,” she finally said after a long pause. “We have our moments of excitement.”

They resumed their walk, passing an abandoned store with dust-darkened windows that obscured the interior. “Wint Boessenecker’s old place,” Jenny said. “He made the most beautiful hand-carved tools, canes, figurines, furniture. I got all of my knives from him. Died four years ago and nobody had the heart to take it on.”

As they approached Dr. Pendergast’s office, a young man in a canvas apron appeared, carefully sweeping clumps of hair out into the street with a birch broom. Dark head bowed while he focused on his work, he was totally unaware of them.

“Slow down,” Jenny said, hand closing around Celeste’s elbow.

As he twisted to catch the last bit of hair, he finally saw them. His reaction was strange: he flashed a quick smile that was more of a grimace and darted back inside. In the handful of seconds Celeste saw his face, she took in Asian eyes, sharp cheekbones, and thick black curls.

“That was Nova. Doc’s apprentice. He’s deaf, and extremely skittish. Don’t be offended if it takes a while for him to talk to you.”

“He can talk? I thought deaf folks were mute, as a rule.”

“People born deaf, yes, usually, but Nova lost his hearing a year ago, from a fever. He… had a hard time before he came here. Sheriff Tupelo found him on the edge of Herschel Gillenwater’s ranch, near the Grandfather, half-dead and delirious. If not for Doc, he wouldn’t have made it. Now Doc’s one of the only people he truly trusts.”

Celeste could read between the lines. “A hard time” could mean plenty of things polite society liked to pretend never happened. She felt a twinge of shared sympathy with the mysterious Nova.

“And here’s my errand’s destination: The Jade and Pearl Tea Room.” As Jenny pushed the door open, a fringe of copper bells tinkled overhead, announcing their entrance.

The room, painted in various shades of green and blue, contained six small tables and a dozen chairs, as well as two very low tables on a raised platform surrounded by flat pillows of teal silk. One of these was occupied by a pair of women in their twenties, both dark-eyed and ivory in complexion. One wore pale pink robes belted with a wide white sash in the traditional Chinese fashion, black hair pulled up into a simple bun, while the other, incongruously, wore masculine buckskins and an overlarge black shirt, the sleeves rolled up past her slim elbows. Her shoulder-length white-blonde hair – all the more unusual with her Asian eyes – was loose and wind-tangled.

“Ooh, hello, Jenny,” exclaimed this strange woman sitting on her knees next to the elegant Chinese lady, a tiny porcelain cup in one hand and a gilded tea set spread out at her elbow. “Who’s this?”

“Celeste Preston, meet Yvonne Bae,” the woman in buckskins waved with a wide smile, “and Yi Ze.” A polite nod greeted her. “Yi Ze and her sister, Yu Jie, own this tea room. Celeste arrived this afternoon.”

“Staying at the Pax?” Yi Ze asked, voice huskier and less accented than Celeste expected.

“For now.”

“The Pax is a lovely place, isn’t it?” said Yvonne. “Lotte and Mrs. Barton take a lot of pride in it. As they should! They run the entire place between the two of them – though I suppose it’s really three now, isn’t it, if you count—”

“Good afternoon,” said a third, musical voice as a Chinese woman in green robes stepped from a back room through a curtain of beads. Her black hair was exquisitely braided into a crown studded with jade combs. She was several years older than her sister. “Welcome, Miss Preston. I heard Jenny from the kitchen. I am Yu Jie.”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“May I offer you a cup of tea? I have just finished mixing a blend to soothe weary hearts.”

“We’ll have to take a raincheck on that, Yu Jie,” Jenny said firmly. “I’ve got to finish showing Celeste the lay of the land before dinner. And I just stopped by to give you what I promised last month…”

“The kittens?” Yi Ze gasped, scrambling to her feet, all of her elegant poise replaced with girlish excitement. Yvonne was hot on her heels as Jenny pulled back the basket’s blanket. Both women squealed with delight, bouncing on their heels as Yu Jie calmly lifted one bobble-headed kitten up to her nose.

"Very adorable,” she pronounced. Like the parting of storm clouds, a smile lit up her entire face. “Fully weaned?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t take them from their mama until they were ready. They’re the calmest of the litter, so they should do well here. Within the next week or two, you won’t see another mouse in the cupboard.”

“Very good. Thank you, Jenny. Let me get your money.”

“What will you name yours?” Yvonne asked as Yi Ze cooed and cuddled both kittens while her sister counted out several coins from a silk purse into Jenny’s hand. “Oh, Miss Preston, we’ll have to have a sit down chat very soon,” the bubbly woman called as they moved to leave. “I can’t wait to hear your story!”

“She’s friendly,” Celeste said once they were out of earshot.

“She’s the friendliest person in town. And the nosiest. If she thinks someone’s keeping a secret, she’ll do almost _anything_ to dig it up. She likes to play matchmaker, too. You have been warned,” Jenny finished in a foreboding voice, fingers wiggling, as the road curved slightly.

“Oh good Lord,” Celeste froze in mid-step, eyes fixed on a two-story house sandwiched between a shoemaker’s and a tiny office for _The Hazeldine Hawk_. Unlike the respectably beige buildings on either side, the house was painted a bright, blinding, unapologetic pink. Equally pink lace curtains fluttered through the open windows. Two turrets protruded from the second floor, giving it a bizarrely fairy tale air, as if a pair of long-haired princesses would lean out and scream for help at any moment. Potted rosebushes – growing so robustly they were practically rose _trees_ – flanked the front door, which bore a huge, garish, cherub-shaped knocker.

“ _That_ ,” Jenny said with audible amusement, “is Hildy’s place. Everybody calls it the ‘Tickled Pink’.”

“Is it…?”

“A brothel? Sure is. Hildy Gruben owns and operates it, and she doesn’t have a subtle bone in her body. Yvonne’s the friendliest person in town, but Hildy runs her a close second. And she’s the loudest. The moment you see her, you’ll know who she is. That’s also where Seung’s currently living,” she added.

“So he’s one of her customers?”

“Probably. But maybe not. Hildy’s got two rooms she rents out to regular tenants, and two reserved to entertain any ‘callers’. She and Libby Hawk live in the last two.” Jenny paused. “Given your willingness to walk with me after I told you I was a witch, and your flippant remark about religion, I gather you’re a pretty open-minded lady…”

“More than most,” Celeste said.

“Then I hope you won’t slight Hildy or Libby when they make your acquaintance, which they’re sure to do tonight. Just about everybody in Hazeldine likes them – a _lot_ – and it’ll be a mark in your favor if you’re as polite to them as you’d be to any other respectable lady.”

“I don’t think less of women who sell their bodies to put food on the table.” In essence, wasn’t that what she had done, answering Mason Sullivan’s letter? Wasn’t that what she was still doing, to a certain extent? Using her body and face to lure bad men in close enough to poison them?

She didn’t sleep with all of her husbands – it was incredible what the right combination of liquor and sedative could do, knocking a man out in a way that made him pliant to suggestion, so he’d wake the next morning a little sore and convinced they’d had a wild night together – but she had with a few. The ones whose hearts were empty rather than rotten, men who had been awkward but harmless. She hadn’t slept with them out of love or passion, not even out of fondness, but out of pity. So they’d have one or two warm memories when she disappeared; to compensate them for the money she took. That wasn’t all that different than whoring, really, and presumably the whores and their customers enjoyed their arrangements far more than she ever had.

“I think it’s lovely that you’re so accepting of… What do the ladies of Tickled Pink prefer to call themselves?”

“You ask Hildy, she’ll say ‘ladies of the night’ with a brassy laugh, which sounds pretty grand with her German accent. Libby calls herself a ‘pillow-warmer’.”

“Well, pillow-warmers, then,” Celeste said. She liked that. It sounded sweet. “It’s very enlightened. I don’t see anything that shameful in a lady using her assets to make a living. So long as no one’s forcing her to do it.”

“Oh, no, I’d like to see someone try to force Hildy to do something she wasn’t keen on,” Jenny snorted. “She loves her work. She loves to talk about her work. Loudly. She can make even Seung blush when she gets into the finer details. Libby is much more circumspect than Hildy, but she marched into the Tickled Pink and asked for a job all on her own. Says she has no interest in being married, but she likes sex and she likes money, so why not combine the two?”

Next door to the Tickled Pink, a man almost too big to be believed stepped out of _The Hazeldine Hawk_. He had to be close to seven feet tall, with proportionally huge shoulders, a barrel chest, and massive arms that were visibly muscular under the tight confines of his brown striped suit. As he closed the door firmly behind him and ducked out under the awning, the waning sunlight made his black skin glow with amber and orange highlights.

He pulled a flat cap over his close-cropped hair, acknowledging the women across the street with a wave of a giant hand. “Evening, ladies!” he called in a mellow baritone.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawk. Heading to the Pax?” replied Jenny.

“Absolutely. I dearly hope Mrs. Barton made a double helping tonight. Feel as though I could eat a horse.” The man’s words lacked any of the honeyed drawl of the South and he was well-educated given his diction; Celeste would’ve bet five dollars he was a transplant from Chicago or Baltimore. He sauntered closer to them with a wide smile that flashed perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth behind full lips. “I also hope you’ve had a fine day, Miss East,” he murmured, brown eyes softening as they looked down at her.

“Middling to fair,” she said lightly. “Celeste, this is Mr. Abraham Hawk, our newspaperman.”

“Please, call me Bram,” he said, shaking her hand warmly.

“Miss Preston just arrived.”

“I hope you’ll settle in quickly, Miss Preston. If you’d like to read any of the back issues of _The Hazeldine Hawk_ , you can almost always find me in my office. Beg pardon, ladies,” he said as his stomach entered the conversation with a loud grumble, “but I think I’d better get to dinner before I swoon from hunger.”

“That is one impossibly handsome man,” Celeste murmured when she rediscovered her voice. She felt as though she’d been hit upside the head. And between the legs.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Jenny agreed. “Polite, too. And as determined as a deer tick.”

“Is he one of your suitors?” Celeste asked with an arched eyebrow.

“‘Suitors’,” Jenny echoed wryly. “As if I’m some grand high society lady. He’s made his interest in me very clear,” she went on primly. “He’s certainly the most tempting of the lot.”

“Why on earth haven’t you snatched him up yet?” Celeste fought the urge to fan her flushed face. When Jenny didn’t answer, she glanced over at her. “…Because you already have your heart set on someone else?” she added shrewdly.

“It’s complicated,” Jenny said simply and in a tone that didn’t encourage further prying. “You’re more than welcomed to pursue Bram Hawk yourself.”

Hmm. There was a thought. It would be a pity if Mr. Hawk turned out to be the sort of man deserving of her especial attentions.

But if he _wasn’t_ , perhaps this one time she could pursue someone who sparked passion rather than pity in her bed…

“…Libby’s brother,” Celeste heard Jenny say, and shook off the hot, hungry thought.

“Pardon?”

“I was saying Bram is Libby’s brother. If you’re interested in him, befriending her would be a wise first step.”

“I thought you said Yvonne was the matchmaker in town.”

“Beg pardon. Guess I’ll just keep my thoughts to myself then,” Jenny retorted with high-pitched, affected effrontery. It was the sort of voice Sibyl would put on when they were teasing each other, and Celeste poked the hedgewitch in the side before she remembered it wasn’t actually Sibyl standing beside her.

The woman poked her right back, finger striking the ticklish spot that always made her squeal, and laughed with all the grace of a braying donkey. “One last stop for the evening,” she said when they’d recaptured their breath. “We can finish the tour tomorrow.”

***

The last stop proved to be the place Celeste had been most curious about: **GODFREY’S GOODS**.

The four rocking chairs flanking the double doors of the entrance were currently vacant, but from here anyone could sit and see the rest of Main Street without strain. Celeste predicted that if she returned tomorrow morning, she’d find four old-timers in residence, perhaps passing a tin of chaw back and forth while they kept watch. That seemed to be a fixture of every town.

Following Jenny inside, Celeste took a moment to savor the smell – that scent all of the best supply stores had: a mixture of leather, licorice, and linseed oil.

Godfrey’s had an impressive selection, covering the gamut from a housewife’s necessities to major farming equipment. Chin-high, free-standing shelves were stocked with tinned goods and mason jars full of preserves, nails, spices, buttons of every kind... Huge canvas bags of cattle feed and planting seed were stacked in fat towers. Bolts of cloth covered the long back wall. A pegboard at the far end of the store had dozens of tools hanging on display: hammers, saws, plow blades, shovels, sickles. Along the long mahogany counter where the register sat was a display of hard candy that could’ve been lifted out of a hungry child’s wildest fantasy. Baskets and jars popped with a rainbow of colors while the scents of sugar, molasses, cinnamon, and mint made for a heady perfume. Just standing there and breathing deeply would be enough to satisfy.

And to think: if she’d gotten here just four days earlier, this could’ve been her store by now.

“Good evening, Miss Jenny,” said the nondescript man standing at the counter. He spoke softly with a musical lilt – Welsh? – and stood with a hunch, as if he was accustomed to making himself look small. Not that he was tall; Celeste doubted he’d match her eye-to-eye when straightened. Average build, too. Not fat, not thin, not muscular, not reedy. Creeping up on middle-age, though his shoulder length, slightly curly hair, moustache, and clipped beard were all pitch black. The man’s most arresting features were his eyes: extremely pale blue, verging on gray, framed by thick black lashes.

Celeste had seen eyes like that once before, on a husky owned by a former prospector. The man had brought the dog back from Alaska, the only thing he had to show for his time in the Yukon; Celeste had thought it was cruel to drag a dog bred for Arctic cold to the dry heat of Arizona. Now, she thought of that dog again as she met this man’s eyes: both looked uncomfortably out-of-place.

“Good evening, Ianto,” Jenny said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were working here.”

“Since the funeral,” the man said as if apologizing. “Mr. Godfrey said he needed some regular help around the store for a while. He’s letting me kip in the back room.”

“Mr. Godfrey?” Celeste repeated. “I thought Mr. Godfrey died three days ago?”

“Yes, miss,” the man said politely. “The elder Mr. Godfrey. That was the funeral I mentioned. The younger Mr. Godfrey owns the store now.”

_He never mentioned a son_ , Celeste thought with a jolt. _Did he mention Sally Harper to Mr. Godfrey the younger? I thought that would be one complication I could avoid._

“…Would you like me to call him down, miss?” the man asked. “He’s just upstairs cleaning out his father’s room –”

“No, no, that’s quite alright,” she said quickly. “No need to bother him.”

Why was her heart thrumming so wildly? Just because John Godfrey had a son? Lotte said the man had been nearly seventy, which meant the son must be a full-grown man, too. It’s not as if she would’ve orphaned a child had she carried out her original plan; perhaps John Godfrey wouldn’t have even needed her signature blend of tea.

It was just… None of her other husbands had had children. They had all been hapless bachelors or violent bastards. Two had been widowers whose wives had “died in childbirth,” which was certainly possible, but Celeste suspected that had been a euphemism for “died after I threw her down the stairs”.

Why did this piece of news shake her so badly? She was dimly aware that Jenny was telling the man at the counter who she was – “Ianto is another pretty recent arrival,” the witch was explaining. “He came to town six months back and works odd jobs for everybody.” – but it was difficult to paste a polite smile on her face when she felt as though she was on the verge of her own heart attack.

“Celeste?” Jenny asked, suddenly picking up the tension she was trying desperately to repress. “Are you alright?”

“I need some air,” she said breathlessly, turning sharply.

And ran directly into what felt like a wall. A wall covered in a white cotton shirt. Large hands caught her tightly by the arms. She stared up – and up – until she met a pair of dark brown eyes. They were glaring at her, the wide brow above them furrowed in annoyance.

“You should be careful,” the man said. She was close enough to feel the rumble of the words reverberate from his broad chest. “There’s plenty of breakable things in here. Anything you break, I expect you to pay for it. You wouldn’t want to make an expensive mess, would you?”

“No,” Celeste said quietly. Her heart was steadying. Breath returned to her lungs. She planted her feet and felt her usual confidence flooding her limbs, straightening her back until she met his glare with one of her own, chin held high.

Like _hell_ would she be cowed in front of witnesses.

“Let go of me,” she ordered.

He obeyed instantly – a small mark in his favor – and stepped back. Crossed thick arms over his chest and stared at her. His dark beard, unlike Dr. Pendergast’s, was clipped short, his moustache clearly delineated from his thick sideburns. His build was comparable to Bram Hawk’s, though he had significantly less muscle and pale skin where Bram was black. Brown hair started high on his forehead but was thick and combed back from his face, too short to need tying but shaggy enough that strands fell over his brow. He had a mulish set to his mouth and he squinted slightly as he studied her. Celeste suspected he needed glasses and was either too proud or too cheap to buy a pair – his clothes were workmanlike enough that the latter could be the case – and put his age somewhere in the mid-forties.

“Uh, hello, Mr. Godfrey,” Jenny said to break the glowering silence.

“Miss East,” he said sharply with a nod in her direction.

“Uh…”

“I’m Celeste Preston,” Celeste said. She offered her hand without breaking eye contact, silently daring him.

He took it firmly and pumped it once, accepting the challenge. “George Godfrey.”

“There. We’ve been civil,” she said, releasing his callused hand. “Now I’ll take my leave before I break anything, Mr. Godfrey.”

She swept out with all the regal frostiness of a displeased queen and set off for the Pax Parley. A moment later, Jenny caught up to her.

“What on _earth_ was that about?” she demanded.

“That man is a brute,” Celeste said. “Talking down to me as if I was a child –”

“I meant before that. Why did you suddenly look like you were about to faint? You were as white as a ghost.”

“Oh. I’m not sure. I just suddenly felt lightheaded. Perhaps I was allergic to something in the store?”

“You were breathing fine after you ran into Mr. Godfrey.”

“It must be all of the tiring traveling I did today. And I hope Mr. Godfrey isn’t one of your suitors.”

“No, the man barely leaves the store. I doubt he’s even looked twice at a woman. Lotte says he’s a born bachelor. I say he’s a born grump who can’t feel anything but annoyance.”

“I was going to marry his father,” Celeste announced, making Jenny stumble in surprise. “We’d arranged it. Via letter.”

“You were going to marry John Godfrey? And you’d never even laid eyes on him? You didn’t even know he had a son?”

“He never mentioned it in his letters.”

“That feels like a pretty big piece of information not to mention to your bride-to-be!” Jenny exclaimed. “Goddess, that whole family is backwards. Was backwards. The man was practically one hundred. Did you know that?”

“He told me he was ‘a mature gentleman’. Lotte said he was almost seventy.”

“And you still would’ve marry him?”

“I’m a realist, not a romantic. I wanted a husband. He wanted a wife. That was enough for me.”

Jenny fell silent as they walked back, but Celeste could feel her watching her. Studying her. She tried to ignore it and thought furiously about this new development. About the note of warning in George Godfrey’s deep voice. About his hands tight around her arms, and the heat in his stare.

Of all the men she’d met today, he was the only one who made warning bells ring in her head. Bram Hawk may have been an exciting fizz to her system, but George Godfrey…

Her hands – clenched into fists at her sides – slowly relaxed. The last few hours had been confusing and left her temporarily unmoored, but now she’d recovered her anchor. She could drop it back into the water and steady herself again.

Because she had a new target in mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner proved to be… interesting.

Celeste managed two spoonfuls of delicious soup before her table was surrounded by eager townspeople. She blinked at the wall of faces that stared down expectantly at her; she hadn’t caught a single name in their jumbled rush to speak.

Lotte, thank God, came to her rescue. She pushed and pulled her way through the curious knot and planted herself in front of Celeste, arms crossed over her ample chest. “Get,” she ordered. “Where on earth have your manners gone? Let the woman eat her dinner – in peace! – before you start hounding her like a feral pack of dogs. If that soup goes cold before she can enjoy it, my mother _will_ come out here and start tanning hides with her biggest spoon.”

Sheepishly, the crowd dissipated to various tables and stools. Most continued to stare avidly at her, but at least they weren’t standing over her and babbling. As she lifted her spoon again, she caught Seung Bae’s eye. He’d been watching from his own table as he spread a deck of cards out before him, and now he winked at her with a grin.

She focused on her sourdough. 

The moment she set down her spoon and pushed the bowl aside, there was a mad clattering of moving chairs. Lotte, stationed behind the bar pouring another pint of beer for Dr. Pendergast, groaned and shouted, “Form a line!”

“Hello again, Miss Preston,” began Deputy Webster, holding out a clump of wilted wildflowers. “I wanted to apologize again for my behavior, both this morning and when your fiancé died, and introduce you to my pal, Val.”

The man beside him was more than a foot shorter, sturdily built with thick sandy hair that fell into his hazel eyes. A good decade younger than Webster, he had a boyish, freckled face that made him look even younger. The deputy badge pinned to his shirt was significantly less battered, and he wore a gun like a man comfortable with using one.

“Valentine Collins, miss,” he said, politely pulling off his brown Stetson with one hand and shaking hers with the other. “I’m Hazeldine’s other deputy. Mostly I keep an eye on Web. And I’m the reigning champion at horseshoes, so if you’re ever looking for a challenge…”

“Welcome to Hazeldine, Miss Preston,” a slim, tall man with red-gold skin and ink-black hair said warmly, kissing her knuckles. The skin and sharp cheekbones spoke of a Native background, while his tailored blue suit and gold pocket watch spoke of wealth and fine taste. “I apologize for not being on hand to greet you when you first arrived. I’m Mayor Will Tupelo. Don’t hesitate to come to me if you need _anything_ …”

“Herschel Gillenwater, rancher,” announced an older man with a pot belly and sharply receding hairline. There was a washed out quality to Mr. Gillenwater, with his graying hair and colorless eyes. “Came into town special when I heard we had a new addition,” he went on, pumping her hand enthusiastically. “Don’t get into town much. The cattle need a lot of looking after, you know, and my piece of land’s the farthest out, just before you reach Grandfather. Reckon I know Grandfather just as good as some of the tribe at this point, and I’d be real happy to introduce you…”

“ _Mein Gott_ , you are pretty as a pitcher—”

“Picture.”

“ _Ja_ , a picture, _danke_ , Liberty. You must be coming over to lunch with us soon, _ja_? I will make the little cakes, the ones with the strawberries. Oh, my name is Hildy Gruben, and this is Liberty Hawk—”

“You can call me Libby. Everybody but Hildy does.”

“—and we are so very pleased to make your acquaintance! I do so love what you have done with your hair – such a lovely color! – and we live in the lovely pink house just down the street. You have seen it? Isn’t it so pretty and cheerful? It is hard to be gloomy around pink, _ja?_ And if you need, we have a spare room, and the rent is very small—”

Celeste was staring, mouth slightly agape. She knew it, and she knew it was gauche of her.

But she couldn’t stop herself. The fortyish woman cheerfully shouting at her with a heavy German accent was the tallest woman she’d ever seen – as tall as Bram Hawk or George Godfrey, perhaps even taller. She had their broad shoulders and thick arms, too. The hair cropped short around her ears was a true platinum blonde and framed her pale face and sapphire eyes like a gleaming saint’s halo. She wore an extremely low-cut, extremely high-slit dress that was a shade between pink and red, covered in frills, that barely contained her breasts, which trembled with each movement.

And Hildy Gruben moved _a lot_. She waved her hands. She laughed with her whole body. She bounced and swayed and clapped.

In comparison, the beautiful younger woman standing next to her was as still as a statue. The polar opposites continued: she was more than a foot and a half shorter, her skin was a dark brown, her black hair frizzed in a thick poof that encircled her face like a cloud, her crooked smile was wry, and she was wearing a plain black dress that would have been suitable for any church service or funeral.

Finally, when Celeste was sure she was about to go permanently deaf, Libby reached out and took Hildy’s hand. “Alright, Hilds,” she said firmly. “We’ve said our hellos. Time to get back.”

Celeste discreetly wiggled a finger in one ear before smiling at the next to step forward.

Thankfully, he was a sedate older man, golden skin well-baked by sun and time, his cropped black hair graying at the edges. Like the mayor, he was clean-shaven, the sharp angles of his face unobscured. Unlike the mayor, he was dressed in practical clothes that were well-worn and made to be worked in. “I’m Hawley Tupelo, Miss Preston. The undertaker.”

“You’re Lotte’s father-in-law,” Celeste said.

“That’s right,” he smiled slowly. “And you’ve met my younger brother, Will.”

“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Unlike the others, he didn’t offer any assistance before walking away.

Then again, the things an undertaker could help you with weren’t all that pleasant to think about.

Several shopkeepers and farming families – husbands, wives, assorted children ranging in age from swaddled babies to sixteen – introduced themselves, as did Miguel San Toro, another rancher: a Mexican man in his sixties with skin like old leather, long black hair pulled back in a braid, and tattoos visible on his forearms.

“Boston Drake,” said a young, well-built black man with a tall hat and sheepskin jacket. “I’m one of Mr. Gillenwater’s cattle drivers.”

“A cowboy?” Celeste asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled with a slow smile. “The only one in town at the moment. I’ll be sure to tell Javi and Filipa to come say hello next time they’re off the range. We work in rotation. Then on Mr. San Toro’s ranch, there’s Luisa and Jeb and Pete.”

“Do you all get along?” Celeste asked with interest. “Two big ranches, I’d expect some competition.”

“A fair bit,” Boston admitted. “Mr. San Toro and Mr. Gillenwater have been neighbors for a long time, and they can be a mite cranky about it. But we stop short of pulling guns on each other. Plenty of grass for all the cattle. We all just keep to our corners, polite-like...”

“I apologize for contributing to the throng, Miss Preston,” announced the second tallest blonde German woman Celeste had ever seen, “but I did want to make your acquaintance.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be Hildy’s sister, would you?”

“Yes, and I apologize for Brunhilda’s… exuberance. She can be rather a lot for people unaccustomed to her energy. I’m Liesel Gruben. I teach at the schoolhouse.”

Liesel was a decade younger than her sister. Her manners, her English, and her features were significantly more polished; if Hildy was a blowsy rosebush, Liesel was a single orchid. Her smooth cheeks weren’t flushed; her blue eyes were a shade darker, more mysterious; and her reserved air gave off a slight chill. She was slimmer and more delicate, willowy in her plain grey skirt and white blouse, her short white hair kept back from her face by a blue ribbon.

After Liesel walked away, there was a lull in the how-do-you-do’s. Celeste realized her throat was sore and mouth dry, so she moved to the bar to sip a “restorative” Lotte promised would help.

As she tried to puzzle out the ingredients – there was definitely a dash of bitters and a strange, sweet juice she didn’t recognize – Dr. Pendergast reappeared with an arm around his shy assistant, urging the boy forward.

“She will not bite you,” the stocky doctor promised, his free hand making odd shapes and gestures the boy watched intently. “Miss Preston, this is my apprentice and adopted son, Nova.”

He was quite a handsome young man, with high cheekbones, full lips, and thick curls. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen, still filling out into manhood. In a couple years he’d be making hearts flutter.

“Hello, Miss Preston,” Nova murmured, barely audible.

“Hello, Nova,” she replied with a reassuring smile.

“Ah,” the doctor said, patting the boy’s back. “And look who has come, too!”

A short teenaged girl with thick eyebrows and a mop of brown curls abruptly crashed into Nova, hugging him firmly around the waist with a wheezing noise of excitement. Celeste expected the boy to react as he had earlier, startled and quick to retreat.

Instead, he turned and hugged her tightly in return, a fond smile brightening his face. When they broke apart, both began making quick gestures with their hands.

“That’s Rachel,” Lotte said at Celeste’s shoulder. “She’s deaf, too. But unlike Nova, she’s been deaf since birth.”

“What are they doing with their hands? Talking?”

“Yep. It’s called sign language. Rachel’s pretty good at reading lips, too, so she can usually follow what people say around her.”

Dr. Pendergast and Nova both laughed sharply. The older man joined in the conversation, thick fingers nimbly pointing, wiggling, and meeting as he shaped the words.

“Doc’s sister is deaf,” Lotte answered the unspoken question. “She lost her hearing to a fever just like Nova, when they were both kids. It’s why Doc studied medicine. He hoped he’d find a cure.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Nope.”

“What happened to his sister?”

“Oh, Greta’s just fine. She got married, had a couple kids, started a school for the deaf in Chicago. She comes to visit every other year. If you’d like to learn to sign, you can sit in on my lessons with Doc. It’s pretty damn fun.”

“You’re learning for the kids?”

“Yeah, and—” Lotte stopped sharply, lifting a hand to wave as a man walked into the bar. A farmer, judging by his clothes and muddy boots, who waved back and pulled off a hat to reveal a staggeringly handsome smile. For a heartbeat, Celeste was sure this was Lotte’s elusive husband, what with the intensity of the looks they were exchanging.

But this man was white, and the Tupelos were Native. He had sharp cheekbones and black hair that curled onto his forehead, but bore no resemblance to either Will or Hawley, and the eyes above his close-cropped beard were a blue that seemed to glow in the yellow light of the lanterns. 

Then the man dropped his hat on the bar and joined the circle of sign talkers with a fond, silent ruffle of Rachel’s hair.

“That’s James Campbell, Rachel’s father. Their farm is right by the lightning oak.”

“He’s deaf, too?”

“Mm-hmm. And the kindest man in Hazeldine.”

Celeste looked at her sharply. Lotte sounded awfully besotted for a married woman. “So,” she said, planting her elbows on the bar. “When am I going to meet Mr. Tupelo?”

“What?” Lotte squinted at her, nose wrinkling. “I thought you met both of them? I saw Will and Hawley here earlier—”

“I mean your husband.”

“My hus—?” The saloonkeeper threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Lord, Celeste! I don’t have a husband.”

“But you said Hawley Tupelo was your father-in-law. He even confirmed it!”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, well, well, it’s about time you got here, Sheriff!” Herschel Gillenwater shouted over the low buzz of conversation. “I came into town just to buy you that drink I owe you.”

“You’re a bald-faced liar, Herschel. I know you’re only here to take a peek at our newcomer. You’re just putting on this show to cover the fact that you stuck around too long, I saw you, and now you _have_ to buy me that drink.” A black hat landed next to James Campbell’s and a Native woman in a red shirt and worn buckskins stepped behind the bar to slide an arm around Lotte’s generous waist. “Hello, darlin’,” she murmured, kissing her soundly. “Sorry I’m so late. Hope Ma saved me some soup.”

“Celeste, this is my wife, Sheriff Rosanna Tupelo,” Lotte said brightly. “Honey, this is Celeste Preston.”

“Miss Preston,” Sheriff Tupelo said matter-of-factly, reaching for her hand. Her beauty was as fierce as Lotte’s, all of the handsome qualities of her father and uncle refined and brightened in her face. Unpolished turquoise studded her ears and her waist-length ebony hair was pulled back into a braid as thick as a wrist. The gold star over her heart gleamed with a mirror brightness.

“Nice to meet you,” Celeste said faintly, doubly shocked by the existence of a female sheriff. “…I’m sorry. You’re married?”

“Yep. About six years now,” Sheriff Tupelo confirmed. “Excuse me, please, but I could eat a bear right now. Ma! Ma, I’m home!” The door to the kitchen swung shut on Josie Barton’s joyous, “Rosy!”

“If you haven’t noticed,” Lotte said, “Hazeldine’s not like other towns. We live by our own rules here. We’re all a little… different. Some more than others. If you decide to stay on for a while, you’ll get used to the strange and unusual. And,” the saloonkeeper lowered her voice, “any secrets you have, they’re safe here.”

“What if I don’t have any secrets?” Celeste countered, regaining her composure.

Lotte gave her a look that was half bemusement, half accusation. “Sweetie,” she said with conviction. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have secrets.”


	4. Chapter 4

Something was rattling in the wind. Not the shutters or windows. Not metal, not wood. It was like stones clattering together…

No…

Celeste opened her eyes and stared up at the lightning oak. The tree was shivering like a frightened horse. The skulls nailed to its branches clacked and clashed together. Brittle and sharp. The sound of stags charging and locking antlers. The sound of chisels striking granite. The sound of bullets leaving guns.

Yet the damp earth beneath her bare feet was perfectly still.

The wind grew stronger. Raked her loose hair across her face, obscuring her vision, reducing the world to brief images outlined in flashes of silent lightning.

Ice spreading over green grass as if a flooding wave.

A golden scaled wing unfurling as something roared like the screeching of train wheels.

Blue eyes glowing above bared fangs.

An axe swinging high, biting into a gnarled trunk that gushed forth red blood.

Grandfather cracking like an immense egg as a man with the head of a vulture watched.

She twisted away, overwhelmed, eyes stinging, acid bitter on her tongue, and saw Lotte standing behind her. The woman smiled – and in the next burst of lightning a grinning skull had replaced her face.

With a strangled shout, Celeste lurched up out of the dream, hand clutched at the collar of her nightgown. In the milky moonlight of her room she panted until the worst of the sweat faded from her brow, grasping the quilt to assure herself of its tangibility. _This_ was real, not the surreal visions her mind had concocted. She’d never had such a vivid dream; not even her nightmares about Sibyl had felt so _close_.

Hands still trembling, she fumbled with the box of matches and lit the bedside lantern. There was no chance of falling asleep again, not with her heart fluttering like a butterfly as adrenaline coursed hot as melted wax through her limbs.

Unless…

Perhaps a glass of bourbon would calm her. She’d found oblivion in a bottle before. And surely Lotte wouldn’t mind if she slipped downstairs and helped herself, given the late hour. She’d just tell her to add it to her tab in the morning.

Barefoot, with only the lantern in hand, Celeste crept out onto the second-floor landing.

Below, the bar looked eerie – which didn’t help shake off the lingering vestiges of the nightmare. The chairs had been stacked upside down on top of the tables, and the spindly legs looked like horns. Narrow slivers of moonlight poured between the slats of the shutters, barely denting the darkness, merely adding texture and layers to the shadows.

With the wick adjusted low, her lantern illuminated mere inches in front of her. The floorboards were cold beneath her feet as she stepped quickly around the bar. She set the lamp aside before reaching for a liquor bottle; the last thing she needed was to drop it on a shelf packed with alcohol and set the whole damn place ablaze.

Breathing shallowly, she tugged at the cork.

It proved uncooperative.

She tugged harder, teeth gritted.

“Need some help?”

It was a friendly voice. But with her mind still full of blood and teeth and skulls, Celeste screamed at a pitch worthy of an opera singer, the bourbon bottle pinwheeling madly out of her hands as she lurched backwards.

Before her shoulder could strike the shelves, a cold hand caught her elbow and yanked her back onto her feet.

Before the bottle could smash into shards across the floor, it froze in mid-air.

And before Celeste saw more than a bearded, transparent face grimacing apologetically, light flooded the room as Lotte and Rosanna appeared at a dead run. The sheriff led the way with a shotgun in her hands, her wife close behind her with—

Not a lantern. A large jar that glowed with a steady white light that far surpassed any kerosene lamp.

Celeste stared at them wide-eyed, chest heaving, as the bourbon bottle slowly rose in the air, levitated over the bar, and settled with a gentle _thunk_.

Rosanna let out a huffed breath and lowered her gun. She was wearing a plain white night shirt, its hem just covering her knees. “Wint?” she said wearily. “Did you frighten our guest?”

“I didn’t mean to.” The sheepish voice emanated from the floor. “She was havin’ a hard time uncorkin’ the bottle.”

“Didn’t Ma tell you to be scarce for a couple days? Just until she could settle in?” Lotte demanded, setting her strange jar on a table and bustling over to Celeste. “Sorry, sweetie,” she said. “Here, sit down on this stool before you fall over. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Bewildered and confused, Celeste allowed her to draw her out from behind the bar. She realized she was staring at the checkered pattern of Lotte’s nightgown like someone hypnotized, and blinked furiously. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

“Wint, you might as well show yourself, since you let the cat out of the bag,” Rosanna said.

Celeste blinked again. Standing a few feet in front of her was a portly man in corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt. He had a round, weathered face crowned in thinning grey hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and generous smile lines around his mouth and eyes.

And she could see the table behind him. She could see it right through him.

“I apologize for startlin’ you, miss,” the man said. His raspy voice had a faint echo to it, as if he was speaking down into a well. “Wint Boessenecker, at your service.”

“…The woodcarver,” Celeste said faintly. “You had the shop next door.”

“That’s right,” he nodded with a smile.

“Jenny said you died.”

“That’s right.”

“Years ago.”

“Yep.”

“So that makes you…”

“A ghost,” the man said cheerfully, the way others might say “left-handed” or “a Methodist”.

“I’m still dreaming. I haven’t escaped that creepy dream yet— Ow!” She twisted to glare at Lotte, shaking the hand the woman had pinched. “That was uncalled for.”

“Sorry, sweetie, but this isn’t a dream. You’re wide awake.” For a moment, Lotte looked downright embarrassed. “I didn’t want to bombard you with _everything_ – figured you had plenty on your plate what with everybody introducing themselves. Hearing your fiancé was dead and buried. The fact of me and Rosanna. That’s more than enough surprises for one day. But…” she glanced over at Wint, who had the good grace to look abashed. “Might as well get it all out into the open now. Remember what I said about Hazeldine being strange and unusual?”

Celeste nodded.

“Some of us are more than just strange. Some of us are…”

“Magic,” Rosanna said bluntly, laying the shotgun on the bar. “A little more than human.”

“But still people,” Lotte added in a rush. “The way Pop sees it, some of us just have more spirit, more energy, than most folks. And it manifests in special gifts and talents.”

“Like ghosts.”

“Exactly. So don’t be frightened if you see things you can’t explain. None of us here misuse our talents. Nobody’s going to harm you.”

“…I’m a realist,” Celeste said slowly. “Logical. Methodical, even. I don’t buy elixirs from snake oil salesmen. I don’t believe in faith healers. And I’d really like to think you’re playing a strange trick on me right now…”

“But you know we’re not.” Rosanna turned and picked up the jar Lotte had been carrying, which still lit up the room. “If you squint carefully, you can tell what’s inside.”

Lightning. The jar was filled with tiny bolts of lightning. Celeste could even hear the faint sizzle of electricity buzzing against the glass like a trapped insect. “How?” she asked, hesitantly pressing a fingertip to the jar. It was pleasantly warm and made the small hairs on her arm stand at attention.

“Luisa Mariposa made it for us. She’s a weather witch with an affinity for storms. She’ll be happy to whip one up for you next time she’s in town, if you’re willing to spare a dollar and a lock of hair.”

“Or do her a favor. A lot of us prefer bartering over money, especially the witches.”

“Witches. Plural. This is… I’ll have to think about this.”

“If you decide to leave – if you really want to go – Charles will take you wherever you need,” Lotte said quietly, patting her arm. “But we ask that you don’t tell the Outside world about us.”

Celeste stared at her blankly before bursting into peals of laughter. “Why would I ever do that?” she demanded, a little hysterical. “I have no interest in spending the rest of my life in an asylum!”

A door swung open with a bang. “What on earth is going on in here?” Josie Barton demanded, a shawl over her narrow shoulders. “Oh. Lord.”

“Ma, I think Miss Preston could use a cup of sleepy tea,” Lotte said as Celeste’s laughter faded into hiccups.

Moments later, a steaming cup was pushed into her hands. “Drink it all down,” Josie ordered. “You’ll feel better in the morning, dear.”

The milky tea tasted like cinnamon and warmed her straight down to her cold feet. She gulped it eagerly, even as her eyelids grew heavier and the tension drained from her body, until the room faded into a black as soft as down pillows…

***

“You know I dearly enjoy these little interludes of ours, Jen,” said Seung Bae, arm tucked under his head as he lifted a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips. He puffed out a perfect smoke ring that expanded to encircle dangling bouquets of dried herbs as it floated to the ceiling.

“But?” Jenny said, reaching over to pluck the cigarette from his hand.

“But I know why I’m here.”

The witch snorted. “I should hope so,” she said with a gust of fragrant smoke. “Thought we made everything clear a long time ago, Seung. I don’t love you. You don’t love me. We’re friends who scratch each other’s itches from time to time.”

He rolled onto his side to look at her, one thick eyebrow arched. The sheets had been kicked to the floor some time ago – he had an unobstructed view of Jenny East, from tousled head to tapping toe. She met his stare with a frank one of her own, calm as his eyes roamed the length of her body before returning to her face. She took another drag of the cigarette while he swept a hand through his black hair to push it back across his forehead.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said, leaning on an elbow, his usual flippancy cast aside for the moment. “I saw you trying to talk to her tonight. Then you asked me to visit. I can put two and two together. In two languages.”

Jenny was silent as she flicked ash onto the floorboards beside the bed. “How is what I’m doing any different than your arrangements?” she asked. “With me, and Hildy, and Libby, and Jeb, and Emmett? If you’d stop messing around and just say how you actually felt—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Alright. Truce. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s change the subject. Miss Preston – what’s your impression?”

“Very pretty. Pretty manners, too. Are you planning to seduce her?”

“Nope.” The incredulous expression on Jenny’s face forced him to elaborate: “There’s a sharpness about her. Like she’s a sheathed knife. Something dangerous in her eyes. I’ve no interest in cutting myself.”

“You felt that, too, huh?” The witch looked thoughtful.

“Wonder if she’ll stick around. Once she sees everybody – warts and all.”

“I think she will.”

“Your gut telling you that, or something more?”

“Woman’s intuition. I don’t think she has anyplace else to go.”

“You could say that about any of us. Isn’t that how anybody ends up here? We ran until we couldn’t run anymore.”

“I’m not running _from_ anything,” Jenny said firmly.

“That so?”

“Mm-hmm. I’m running _to_. Big difference.”

“I hope you find what you want at the end of the road, then,” Seung said philosophically. “Hope you don’t have to chase after it forever.”

“And I hope you stop playing stupid before you run out of luck,” Jenny retorted as he took back the cigarette stub, extinguishing the ember with a pinch between his thumb and forefinger before he flicked it aside.

“Me? Run out of luck?” he scoffed, swinging a leg over her waist and nuzzling her neck. “Impossible.” His hand traced her side, her stomach, before kneading her left breast with familiarity, thumb plucking the pert nipple. “That’ll be the day.”

“Magic’s like a cat, you know,” Jenny said between kisses, scratching long, livid furrows down his back as his hips began to pump, as everything grew slick and tight again.

“How’s that?” he demanded, hand fisting in her hair. She bit the edge of his bottom lip. He growled softly.

“It has a – _unh!_ – mind of its own,” she panted. “The moment it knows you… expect it… to come when you call… it’ll desert you.”

The weight of him was glorious. The sensation of skin against skin, heat meeting heat. How his body covered hers completely, blocking out the rest of the world.

It might not have been exactly what she wanted – but damn if it wasn’t what she needed right now.

“…What were you, _ngh_ , saying about coming?”

“Cats and magic. You can’t expect them to always be there,” she insisted between gasped breaths. “Fickle things.”

“Don’t you ever stop thinking?” Seung grumbled, adjusting the angle of their bodies with another thrust. Jenny arched against him, whimpering, fingernails stamping crescent moons into his shoulders. “Just _be_ , girl.”

His mouth met hers with enough force to bruise. She plunged her fingers into his hair as they abandoned words and lost themselves in sensation, in the bucking of bodies and squeaking of the bed, as the darkness outside grew pink at the edges and the first birds began to stir.

***

Celeste was having her breakfast at the bar. Halfway through her bacon and eggs – still fighting off the occasional jaw-cracking yawn – George Godfrey marched into the Pax.

“What the hell,” he said without preamble, “is this nonsense I hear about you marrying my father?”

She set her fork down with a soft clink. Patted her mouth with a linen napkin. “Obviously, that _is_ nonsense,” Celeste said reasonably. “Seeing as the man’s dead. What you _meant_ to say is that I was _intending_ to marry your father, which is true. We exchanged letters for two months.”

“Two months.”

“Yes.” Celeste glanced at Lotte, frozen behind the bar. She was staring at George as if he had two heads.

“Strange, how he never mentioned you.”

“And he never mentioned you,” she countered. “Don’t be angry with me for your father’s poor communication skills.”

The man seemed temporarily flummoxed by this. The large hands at his sides clenched into fists. “Why?” he demanded finally, between gritted teeth.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate, Mr. Godfrey. Why what?”

“Why were you marrying him?”

“He offered me a comfortable home and steady work in his store. I’m at the age where a woman likes to settle down. Start a family. Your father said he was beginning to look ahead to his retirement – not knowing of your existence, I assumed he wanted an heir.” She sipped her coffee. “If you’ve come to tender your condolences, Mr. Godfrey, you needn’t bother. Yes, I’m disappointed that my original purpose in coming here is moot, but I didn’t know your father all that well, so I don’t grieve for him as you must be grieving. Please accept _my_ condolences on your loss—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” George said, voice as brittle as cold glass. “He was a hard man and we were never close.”

He turned on his heel and marched out as abruptly as he’d appeared.

“Green Goddess,” Lotte murmured in his wake. “In the twelve years I’ve run this place, that is the first and only time George Godfrey has ever stepped foot inside. In fact, I can count the number of times I’ve seen him outside of Godfrey’s Goods on one hand. And that was definitely the most words I’ve ever heard from him.”

“What a peculiar man,” Celeste agreed. She hadn’t meant to be so sharp with him; if she was going to succeed in luring him in, she’d have to be more enticing. But something about him made her speak her mind before she had a chance to affect her usual charm. “Why does he never leave his store?”

Lotte shrugged. “I don’t think he’s comfortable around people. Or open spaces.”

“The whole family was like that,” Wint said, materializing at the end of the bar. He looked grayer in daylight, like smoke sculpted into the shape of a man. He picked up a rag in one translucent hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, and began polishing the dust from the glass. Being incorporeal clearly didn’t prevent him from interacting with the living world. “His mother, Margaret, died years ago, when George was still a boy. A born invalid, the poor woman. She was bedridden after the boy came along. And John was never that friendly before she passed, but afterwards he pretty much just locked himself in the store. Between the two of them, George was fated to become a hermit, too. A shame, really. Can’t help but think he’d be a better man if he’d been socialized more as a child. Taught how to properly act around other folks.”

“Maybe he could be your new project,” Lotte said.

Celeste swallowed her mouthful of coffee with some difficulty. “What do you mean?” she asked with carefully schooled confusion.

“Until you figure out what you want to do in Hazeldine, you can work on coaxing George Godfrey out of his lair. Luring him out to interact with people. You’ve clearly made an impression on him, if he was willing to walk in here to confront you.”

“That makes him sound like a bear, and me like a jar of honey,” Celeste said dryly.

“There _is_ something about him that reminds you of a grizzly,” Lotte mused. “One that’s just woken up from a really long hibernation. Maybe it’s the voice. Or the hair.”

“Or the hands,” she said before she could stop herself. They had to be twice as big as hers; they’d covered her arms from elbow to shoulder when he grabbed her.

Lotte looked at her with a knowing grin. She returned her attention to the eggs still on her plate.

Washing the last bite of bacon down with a fresh cup of coffee, Celeste said, “Wonder how Mr. Godfrey heard about my reason for being here?”

Wint and Lotte exchanged an amused look. “Yvonne,” they chorused as one.

“Ah. Jenny warned me about her.”

“My advice is to fight fire with fire,” said Lotte. “Before she can start peppering you with questions, demand to know everything about her life, her family, her work at the paper, whatever you can think of. It might throw her off long enough for you to escape.”

“She works for _The Hazeldine Hawk_?”

“Yep. She does most of the writin’. In her defense,” Wint said, wiping another bottle, “she’s darn good. A born reporter. It’s a shame we’re not a bigger town. We don’t make enough juicy stories every day to keep her satisfied. I think that’s why she’s as nosy as she is – she gets bored and wants to stir things up, make things happen.”

“She shares that impulse with Seung,” Lotte said dryly.

“Good morning, all,” Josie trilled as she bustled out of the kitchen. “How are we feeling today, Miss Preston? No worse the wear for the evening’s shocks?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Celeste said. The cook noticed her half-empty cup and grabbed the pot to refill it. “You didn’t happen to put something extra in that tea you gave me, did you?”

“I didn’t drug you, honey,” Josie laughed. “Just gave you a little nudge for a deep, dreamless sleep, that’s all.”

“Define ‘nudge’.”

“Well, I’m what you call a natural witch. And my power comes out through my cooking. When I’m making something, I can put a little influence on it.”

“Ma’s Broken-Hearted Pie can actually heal a broken heart,” said Lotte.

“Is there such a thing as an unnatural witch?”

“Natural just means I was born with the gift,” Josie explained. “A lot of witches have to study and practice to use magic. Lucky me, I didn’t have to! Of course, I only have kitchen magic – other girls are more versatile. Everybody’s got their special affinities, but the hedges can do a lot more than brew sleeping tea or bake a healing pie.”

“Mrs. Barton, as someone who can burn a pot of water trying to boil it, that’s plenty impressive.”

The older woman dimpled girlishly with pleasure. “That’s sweet of you to say, honey. And please call me Josie. I’ve never liked standing on formality. And hearing Mrs. Barton always makes me feel so _old_.” She took the empty plate and fork and returned to her domain, humming softly.

“I’m discussing witchcraft in public,” Celeste said. “While looking at a _ghost_.”

“I apologize again for givin’ you such a fright last night, miss,” Wint said. “Jo told me I wasn’t to show myself for a few days, but I’ve always been an impatient man.”

“You were only trying to be helpful,” she countered.

She was reassuring a ghost.

_What on earth was happening?_

“We’re really not _all_ that different from everybody else,” insisted Lotte. “Nobody’s going to attack you, or try to eat you, or curse you. We all go about our lives, do our work, raise our families, like any other town. Fact is, you’re probably safer here than Outside. Women have a bit more power and freedom in Hazeldine, from what I hear.”

There was certainly something to be said for that: Celeste doubted Hildy and Libby would be treated so well in Carson City or Tombstone; that Lotte would be able to own such a large, prosperous saloon all on her own, or that Yvonne Bae would be a reporter. She _knew_ Rosanna wouldn’t be a sheriff. “I take it you were born here?”

Lotte nodded. “And I’ve never wanted to leave.”

…In the grand scheme of things, did the existence of magic – knowing it actually existed – really change that much? She’d always known monsters were real, that they dressed like men, so why not throw a few more creatures and spooks and witches into the mix? It didn’t change who she was, or her purpose in life.

From that perspective, Hazeldine felt no worse than any other town. And in a couple ways it was better; that it _acknowledged_ the monstrous and bizarre made it more honest than any other place she’d been to, where society constantly turned a blind eye to depravity and injustice, as if ignoring it would make it disappear rather than promulgate.

“So?” Lotte asked as she straightened on her stool. “What’s the verdict? Stay or go?”

“I’m not a delicate flower, and I like a challenge,” Celeste replied firmly. “I’m staying.”


	5. PART TWO - PESTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Greer Perdillo (Gina Carano) – the blacksmith.  
> * Blythe Carlyle (Jordana Brewster) – a seamstress.  
> * Caleb Rutledge (Kevin Durand) – the postman.  
> * Leland Rutledge (Kris Kristofferson) – a scientist.

**P A R T T W O —** **P E S T S**

“Cotton?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“Where’s your badge?”

The deputy looked down at his shirt. The round shield didn’t miraculously materialize. He blinked in confusion. “Um, don’t know, Sheriff. Could’ve sworn I pinned it on this morning.”

Rosanna sighed gently. Val’s rain chart nailed on the wall had an awful lot of red X’s on it. “I’d like you and Val to look for it today, in all the places you can think of. If you can’t find it by tomorrow, I’ll have Greer make you a new one.”

The blacksmith would want a pretty sizable favor for yet another replacement; Webster couldn’t wear the standard badge, which meant Greer always had to make his custom, out of a precise blend of metals, which took twice as long to craft.

But she didn’t want him going without one for long. In Hazeldine, the badges were more than ceremonial trappings of office; more than just a visible shorthand for the law. They were quite literal shields that made their bearers immune to dangerous magic, wild hexes, and ill luck. If a shifter lost their temper – or, Goddess forbid, gave in to animal hungers – anyone wearing such a badge could approach them without fear, safe in the knowledge that they’d negate the transformative magic, reversing the change, with a touch.

They didn’t often have such dire emergencies, but Rosanna knew better than to grow complacent.

The moment you relaxed, certain nothing bad could happen, that was when the shithouse hit the water tower.

***

“ _Mei-mei_ ,” called Yu Jie from the kitchen, “did someone break a cup in the lotus set?” She was always louder when she spoke in their first tongue.

“No,” Yi Ze replied. She straightened from the table she was scrubbing to scan the room, now quiet and empty with the lunchtime customers gone. The English-style lilac set was right where Mrs. Cornell and her daughter had left it, both sturdy, handled teacups accounted for. And Mr. Bae had stopped in for his usual egg rolls and spicy noodles; his table had an empty plate and water glass on it. There was no sign of an eggshell gold-rimmed cup made in the Chinese fashion. “I don’t see it out here.”

Yu Jie frowned at the three remaining cups on the shelf. The lotus service had been a particular favorite of their mother’s, handed down by her mother. She had wrapped each piece in layers of silk on the voyage to America and not a single item had cracked. It was painful to think they had been too careless with it after it had survived both that journey and their father’s gambling debts – an incomplete tea set felt unnatural.

“Maybe a mouse carried it off?” her sister suggested, looking at her through the beaded curtain, the dirty dishes gathered on a tin tray.

“Not if Huang and Cho are doing their jobs properly,” Yu Jie replied, referring to their new kittens, but her funereal expression softened at the silly image of a mouse carrying off a teacup. “What would a mouse want with one of our cups?”

“It would make a perfect rodent-sized bathtub.”

“Nonsense,” she said. But she still giggled.

***

“…Wonderful,” Josie muttered, rummaging in the lidded sewing basket in her lap. “Now my scissors are missing. The silver ones with inlaid turquoise handles.”

“Did they slip under the cushion of your chair?” Yvonne suggested. The upholstered chairs in Hildy’s sitting room were notorious for swallowing watches, jewelry, and coins.

“No, because I haven’t used them yet today. And my pincushion disappeared two days ago – that one you made me, Blythe, from that beautiful gold fabric? I went to patch a fraying hem on one of Lotte’s blouses and had no needles. Had to buy a new packet, and if there’s one thing that sticks in my craw, it’s buying something I shouldn’t have to.”

“Seems a lot of things have gone missing of late,” Valentine said. “We’ve had a lot of folks come into the office to report lost things, in case they turn up again. Blast – this seam ain’t straight.”

“Use the pinning method I showed you,” Blythe said gently.

Hazeldine’s sewing circle was an odd bunch. There were no gray-haired grandmothers in attendance, for starters; the oldest member present was Josie. And they didn’t meet to make quilts and clothes for the needy, though Blythe Carlyle – the town’s finest seamstress and the “leader” of the circle – usually worked on baby blankets for the poorer mothers.

It was more of a class than anything else, where Blythe taught the necessities of hemming, patching, buttonholing, and stitching. The ambitious learned embroidering and lace tatting. Her students ranged in age; several were under ten, but plenty of adults attended every week, and there were usually just as many boys and men present as ladies.

They met at the Tickled Pink, which had a large enough space – Hildy’s sitting room took up most of the ground floor, since she had no need for a dining room or study and had knocked down the dividing walls to consolidate three rooms into one – and was the most comfortable, with its multitude of big bay windows, plush chairs, and loveseats. Bright natural light and cool breezes flooded the room which, while still pink, was painted a more subdued shade than the house’s exterior.

Josie said it made her feel like a pearl in a clamshell.

Besides the Pax’s cook (who attended for the camaraderie) and Deputy Valentine (who after dozens of lessons was still all thumbs), today’s group included:

Three girls and two boys from the outlying farms;

Celeste, who had never quite mastered a needle;

Yvonne, loathe to miss any opportunity to gather gossip;

The blacksmith Greer Perdillo, a muscular woman who looked uncomfortable with anything more delicate than a hammer;

Ianto, painfully shy and quiet, focused on patching a threadbare shirt;

Bram, who had started attending when Libby said she wouldn’t repair another burst shirt and he had to look after “his own damn self”;

James Campbell, determined to learn everything so he could teach his daughter, since her mother had passed long before she could be trusted with scissors;

And Hildy. The madame was an accomplished seamstress whose work rivaled Blythe’s; but it was, after all, her home, and she delighted in playing hostess. She hardly stayed put in her chair, constantly popping up to admire someone’s work, refill cups of tea and coffee, or produce yet another plate of lemon tarts or cookies from her kitchen.

“Several W’s went missing from my primary typesetting case yesterday,” Bram said. “And I _know_ I didn’t misplace them, not that many all at once. Luckily, you don’t use as many W’s as E’s in printing. But I still don’t like the idea of running short of a letter.”

“I could make you some replacements,” Greer suggested, smiling at the big man sitting next to her. Her pale face defaulted to “glower” – something that had immediately made Celeste connect with her – but she was pretty when she smiled, with her sharp eyebrows and strong nose. And she had the most beautiful, thick hair: a rich, shoulder-length brown that gleamed like sunlit river stones. At work in her smithy, she kept it ruthlessly tied back in an iron-hard bun, but today she’d left it loose. Like Yvonne, she never wore dresses or skirts, preferring practical trousers and mannish shirts that did little to mask her muscular, thick thighs and arms or ample bosom. Her sole concession to femininity was a broad gold necklace she wore like a collar, close to the skin.

Celeste suspected Greer was more than a little in love with Bram Hawk. She made a point of sitting next to him every week, and her husky voice was unusually soft whenever she spoke to him.

“It’ll be fiddly work,” the newspaper man warned. “My letters are ten point. That’s awfully tiny.”

“It’ll be an interesting challenge,” she said. “I don’t get to do much delicate metalwork, and I’m getting sick of horseshoes. Every time I turn around, somebody else needs new horseshoes…”

“Where do you think everything’s disappearing to?” Yvonne asked. “Do you think we have a thief?”

Was it Celeste’s imagination, or did Ianto hunch further in on himself at the suggestion?

“Mighty strange thief,” Val snorted, trying to untangle a snarled thread. “What’s someone gonna do with metal letters and teacups? A couple of nice things have disappeared, sure, but it’s mostly baubles and oddments. Nobody’s reported any money or heirloom jewelry yet. Mrs. Carlyle, could you…?”

“You’ve got a knack for knots, Mr. Collins,” Blythe said, setting down her work. “Take your time. Set a slower pace. When you rush, you pull too tightly and make the knots impossible to pick loose…”

Even with someone as hopeless as Valentine, the slender seamstress never raised her voice. Never sounded impatient or frustrated. She radiated the patience and wisdom of someone far beyond her thirty-eight years.

When Celeste first made her acquaintance, three days after arriving in Hazeldine, she’d felt herself relax instantly. Tension she hadn’t been aware of faded from her shoulders and arms. It was easier to breathe around Blythe Carlyle, who was warm and welcoming even in her high-collared black dresses, her black hair bound in a tight braid that fell past her waist. A smile waxed and waned above her pointed chin, never disappearing completely. And the dark olive hand that clasped Celeste’s was soft but for the calluses on her thumb and forefinger.

“She was widowed young,” Jenny explained when Celeste asked about her. “Over a decade ago, and she’s still in mourning. Her husband, Tyler, was a kind man, if a little reserved. A cattle driver for Mr. Gillenwater. Something spooked his horse and he broke his neck when it threw him. She opened her shop a couple months later. Started the sewing circle. To keep busy, I think. She’s a lovely woman, but she’s hard to really get close to. She holds people at arm’s length.”

Celeste didn’t blame her. When you lost the person you loved most in the world, it was often impossible to move on. Blythe and Tyler must have had all sorts of plans for the future, and now that future was gone. Those plans were as dead and buried as he was. That the woman had done so much since losing him was admirable – and a testament to her strength.

James tapped his wedding ring against the wooden arm of his chair, signaling he had something to say. When everyone looked expectantly in his direction, he held up the small slate he carried everywhere, which read:

_Maybe we could set a trap_.

“What sort of trap?” Yvonne asked, leaning forward over her knees.

The farmer rubbed the words away with a kerchief and scrawled quickly. _A box trap, or a snare. Bait it with something shiny. Rachel and I make them to catch rabbits in our lettuces._

“I don’t think we should kill it,” Ianto said, surprisingly forceful. “Whatever it is. If all it’s taking is pretty trinkets. Seems harmless to me…”

_Snare or box trap made right wouldn’t kill it,_ promised James.

“Are we sure it’s not a child getting up to mischief?” Celeste asked, breaking her observant silence. “…Or Wint?”

She’d learned the Pax’s resident ghost had a sneaky streak when she woke up one morning to discover a large – but thankfully dead – spider carefully placed on the pillow next to her face. Her resulting scream had made Lotte come running, and earned the chortling ex-Mr. Boessenecker a thorough scolding from Josie.

“Wint doesn’t leave the Pax, as a rule,” Josie replied. “It’s not that he _can’t_ , exactly, it’s just that he’s tethered himself there, so the further he floats from it, the less ‘solid’ he is. He can’t interact with physical objects or speak aloud more than ten yards from the building.”

“I didn’t realize spooks had rules,” Celeste said.

“Everything in the world has rules,” Blythe said. “Nature. The living. The dead. Even magic.”

“Especially magic,” Greer seconded vehemently, the light catching on her necklace.

“And no child would dare risk Rodrigo’s wrath by stealing his gold-banded fountain pen,” Yvonne said firmly. “They’re all terrified of him.”

“Is that why he hasn’t left the bank all week?” Bram asked. “The man’s been broodier than a hen.”

“He’s worried whoever it is will slip past him and make off with gold ingots or coins next. Lotte’s had to deliver his elixir every day.”

“Why are the children terrified of Mr. Alvarez?” Celeste demanded sharply.

“He shouts loud enough to burst your ears,” announced freckle-faced Matthew Goodwin, aged seven, from the corner where the circle’s youngest attendees were sprawled across a trio of settees. The smallest girl had fallen asleep with an arm draped over the side of a cushion, embroidery hoop dangling from her curled fingertips. “When he gets real angry, _smoke comes out of his ears_.”

“My Pa says one time Mr. Alvarez got so mad he set the Pax on fire,” added ten-year-old Penny Layton with all the fastidiousness of a preacher’s wife, sitting straight as a ramrod with the folds of her blue skirt perfectly arranged around her dusky black legs.

“That’s not true,” Josie countered in a similar tone of voice. “He only singed it.”

“And _my_ Pa says if he gets real, _real_ angry, he might start biting folks. So I’m to be on my best behavior around him,” said Matthew. The rest of the children nodded.

“He’s never bit anyone,” Yvonne said. But she didn’t sound as certain as she usually was.

“There’s a whole story here I haven’t heard and don’t understand,” Celeste said.

“Give it a couple more months, Miss Preston,” Val reassured her. “Once folks are sure you’re gonna stay, they’ll really open up to you. Not all of us like to broadcast our differences like Jenny East or Wint.”

“Well, if Alvarez won’t leave the bank until this mystery’s solved, I think we should follow James’ suggestion and set up some traps,” Bram said firmly. “He’s already enough of an antisocial shut-in.”

“Speaking of antisocial shut-ins: what on _earth_ is going on between you and Mr. Godfrey, Miss Preston?” Yvonne asked sweetly, staring directly at Celeste. “He’s been seen outside of the store _three times_ since you’ve arrived, and every time he’s arguing with you.”

“The man refuses to believe I was engaged to his father. He seems to think I’m here to steal Godfrey’s Goods from him, no matter how many times I assure him I have no interest in owning a business.”

Celeste didn’t think of herself as a con artist; she never entered matrimony in order to make off with a man’s fortune, after all. She didn’t deceive to fill her own pockets; what she did was, frankly, a public service. She was saving other women, avenging those already fallen, by murdering her husbands. That she then inherited their worldly goods was besides the point. She’d marry (and bury) anyone who was violent, cruel, and heartless, regardless of their financial status.

She was democratic that way.

That George Godfrey was so suspicious of her complicated her plans for him. But at least he thought her a con artist – something she could refute honestly with a smile or a laugh of amusement – and not a multiple murderess.

“Where should we set up the traps? And how many do you think we’ll need?” asked Josie, addressing James.

The handsome farmer thought on it, finger tapping his lips. _At least five. Enough to form a loose circle around town, in places that are quiet and not crowded. And we should set up regular watches, so we can move quickly the moment a trap is sprung._

“Somebody will have to tell Jenny to keep her cats close to home…” Yvonne said with exaggerated innocence.

“I’ll warn her,” said Bram, with an alacrity that made Greer look down at the thick canvas apron she was piecing together, smile replaced by funereal solemnity.

“What are we discussing?” Hildy asked as she reemerged from the kitchen, a fresh platter of warm cookies in her hands. The children cast aside their stitching and fell upon it with whoops of delight and a chorus of “Thank you, Madame Gruben!”

“Traps, Hildy,” said Valentine. “Something’s been making off with folks’ shiny bits-and-bobs, and we’re aiming to catch whatever it is.”

“Have you had anything turn up missing?” Josie asked, tying off a thread. “Checked your crystal animal figurine collection lately? Might be one or two of them have run off.”

“Oh, no, I am not losing anything,” Hildy said, some of her natural brightness dimming. “…What sort of traps, Val?”

The deputy pointed at James, who held up his slate: _Box and snares_. _To catch whatever it is alive_.

“Oh, good. That is good. Um, please to excuse me, I forgot to turn off oven…”

Yvonne’s eyes thoughtfully followed the madame as she hurried out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Upstairs in her spacious bedroom, Hildy quickly closed her windows and drew the red velvet drapes over the lace privacy curtains. She took a giant mason jar from a shelf and shook it until lightning crackled to life inside, illuminating the richly furnished room with flashes of gold and silver. From the ample charm bracelet she always wore, she unhooked a bronze key and fitted it into the lock of a door all of her “guests” assumed led to a closet.

Before she opened the door, she rapped it three times with her knuckles.

Three tiny knocks replied from the opposite side.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Hildy murmured in German, opening the door with one hand and balancing the lightning jar in the other. “I know it’s early, and you must have been working, but I need to do a count…”

Taking up most of the space inside the narrow room was something that, at first glance, looked like a child’s dollhouse. It was built at a far grander scale than most toys of its kind, big enough that the hypothetical child could crawl inside one of the lower rooms. And it wasn’t filled with the usual delicate replicas of furniture or porcelain dolls, either.

No, there were tufts of cotton batting, scraps of fabric, and clumps of straw that had been fashioned into beds. Or perhaps nests. There was no glass in the little window frames, but there were wooden ramps and knotted ropes that stretched from them to a series of shelves built along the walls.

And on these interconnected, tiered shelves, looking up from odd mechanical contraptions to stare curiously at Hildy, were several furry brown and gray creatures. Nimble, tiny fingers grasped bits of metal, wires, doll-sized hammers and pliers. From the neck down they resembled prairie dogs, fat and round and stocky, with rodent-like hands and clawed feet and stubby tails.

But from the neck up, they clearly _weren’t_ prairie dogs. Their hairless faces were simian, almost human, and their pointed ears swiveled and flicked like a cat’s. The pupils in their bulbous green eyes widened and contracted dramatically as they regarded Hildy.

One threw aside the spring it held and scampered along its shelf toward her, making the breed’s signature clicking, knocking noises with its tongue. She caught it as it leaped for her shoulder, smiling fondly as its tiny, unusually strong hands patted her face and tugged at her necklace.

“Hello, precious,” she cooed, quick to acknowledge the others as they gathered close, demanding chin scratches and head pats. “You’ve got plenty of work to keep you occupied?”

She surveyed the creatures’ handiwork: rebuilt music box drums, reassembled pocket watches, a toy carousel of painted ballerinas that spun and pirouetted, various bits of machinery of their own design. There seemed to be enough on the shelves to keep them all busy…

But when she counted the animals themselves, she couldn’t bite back her groan.

There was one more than there should be.

Which meant the sterilization potion she’d been mixing into their water was no longer working.

Which meant the knockers had been _breeding_.

Knockers had at least three pups at a time, and they physically matured within hours of birth. So there were _at least_ two that had escaped – through a hole in the wall behind the nesting house, she discovered after a few more minutes of looking.

There hadn’t been enough to tinker with, to keep them stimulated, so they had turned their clever little minds and deft hands to escaping. They must still be fairly young, if they were only stealing shiny objects; juvenile knockers went through a magpie phase before turning their full attention to building, disassembling, and wreaking full-scale havoc.

Liesel had told her not to bring them. She’d shaken her head disapprovingly, lips pursued, as Hildy dosed them with a sleeping potion and crated them for the voyage. “They’re just pests,” her then-teenaged sister had insisted. “And they’re not native to America. I could tell you horror stories about the affects of invasive species on ecosystems.”

But they’d always had knockers in the house, as far back as Hildy could remember. Their father had found them charming and interesting, and Hildy shared his sentiments. It just wouldn’t feel like home without them.

And now that decision might just bite her in the backside.

“Oof,” Hildy sighed, as one of the knockers tried to unfasten her charm bracelet and another nibbled a button from her boot.

***

“…Those spots sound promising to me. So we’ll need several crates — do you have any spare ones lying around at the Pax, Josie?” Val.

“We might,” the cook said doubtfully. “But every time we unload a new shipment, Rosy tends to redistribute them to the farms, especially this time of year.”

“What about Godfrey’s?” Celeste suggested. In the three weeks that she’d been in Hazeldine, she’d seen a large covered wagon pull through town twice to make deliveries at the store and the Pax, dropping off the goods the otherwise self-sufficient residents needed. Each time, the driver — face, figure, and gender obscured by a tattered, full-length duster coat and huge sombrero — had sat silently up front and left the locals to unload the crates. Poor Ianto hauled a dozen boxes and trunks into Godfrey’s Goods by himself, no sign of the muscular George on hand to assist. “There’s bound to be plenty of old crates there.”

“Godfrey’s not the type to do favors,” Bram said.

“How often does he get asked to do one?” Celeste countered. “Seems to me everyone’s afraid of the man and goes out of their way to avoid him.”

“Not afraid so much as cautious,” Blythe said, gathering up her embroidery. “George doesn’t encourage overtures of friendship.”

“Ianto, would you—” Celeste stopped short as panic flashed across the man’s face. Asking the nervous clerk to make a direct request of George Godfrey would be on par with demanding he beard a wolf in its den. “Never mind. I can do it myself.”

“Miss Preston,” Ianto said hesitantly, following her as the group dispersed for the day. “Now may not be a good time to talk to Mr. Godfrey. He’s been in a terrible bad mood today.”

“Has he ever been in a good mood?” she asked with honest interest as they crossed the street and approached the store. Ianto trailed several deferential steps behind her, as if walking abreast of her would be impolite. She couldn’t decide if the man was just painfully shy and awkward or if he truly thought himself beneath everyone.

“Er, well, he’s louder today. I don’t think he slept well. And he didn’t touch his breakfast.”

_I hope he gave it to you_ , Celeste thought as she reached for the door. _You could use a few dozen extra meals_. It wasn’t so much that Ianto was too skinny, but that he had an inherent leanness. There was a threadbare quality to him, like a shirt scrubbed so often light shone through it. Jenny had told her he arrived in town with only the clothes on his back and no explanation, no story.

Celeste could see, with his jumpy nerves and sharp eyes, that he’d spent his life struggling. He was an able handyman with obvious training in carpentry, and far stronger than he looked — she’d seen him heft things two men would strain over — but perhaps he was one of those unlucky men who could never settle down and find a steady profession. Perhaps he’d had a master who was too rough and had never formally finished an apprenticeship; or perhaps, in his youth, a fondness for cards or drink had lost him both money and reputation, necessitating hasty moves. She wouldn’t be surprised if it came out that he’d been falsely accused of a crime, either; that would explain his furtive unease and hesitancy to open up to anyone. And men like Ianto made for perfect patsies — she’d seen plenty of his ilk take the fall for more powerful men, in New York and on the frontier.

(Any criminal accusations _had_ to be false. It boggled the imagination to picture Ianto stealing, let alone harming anyone. Yesterday, Celeste had watched as one of the scarred mutts that hung around the Rutledge Telegraph and Post Office approached him, tail wagging hopefully. A moment later, the dog had trotted away with the sandwich he’d just started eating. Ianto had a compulsion to be kind.)

“About time you got back,” George Godfrey grumbled as the door swung open and jangled the bell. Sitting behind the counter on the tall, narrow stool, he looked ludicrously oversized. As if he was trying to fit into a space intended for a child. He looked up from the day’s issue of _The Hazeldine Hawk_ in his hand, saw Celeste, and the squint of annoyance instantly transformed into a heated glower that darkened his jutting brow. “What do _you_ want?”

“You really should work on your welcomes, Mr. Godfrey,” she chided. “Is that any way to greet someone who may be here to give you money?”

“Are you?”

“Well, no,” she conceded. “I came to ask if we could borrow five or six of your old shipping crates.”

“‘We’? Who is we?”

“The sewing circle. Your neighbors. Deputy Collins and Bram Hawk and Mrs. Carlyle — myself — and a few others.”

“And why do you need shipping crates?”

“We’d like to set up several traps around town. To try and catch whatever has been stealing odds and ends from everyone. Have you noticed anything missing lately?”

George glowered silently for a long moment. “No, but then I haven’t made a proper inventory since my father passed. Ianto, we’ll start tomorrow. The books are in the back.”

“Books, Mr. Godfrey?” Ianto echoed faintly.

“Yes, the record books,” he clarified impatiently. “We’ll need to check the current stock with everything listed in the books to make sure the counts are correct.”

“Er, sir, I…” Ianto’s hands clenched at his sides. “…I can’t read, Mr. Godfrey.”

“Can’t read? What are you talking about? You’ve been running the till for a month. Are you telling me you’ve been handing people the wrong change all this time?” The man’s face darkened like a thunder cloud.

“No, not at all, sir,” he amended quickly. “I’m good at math. I can count and subtract just fine. Numbers aren’t the problem. But letters…”

_Ah_ , Celeste thought. That was partial enlightenment, at least. And perhaps this could be an opportunity…

“Ianto, I don’t know if I can keep an employee who can’t read. What if a customer comes in with an order to be filled? What if a telegram’s sent by someone who needs a delivery made? If you can’t even read the labels—”

“Before you dismiss Ianto, Mr. Godfrey, I’d like to say something—”

“You’re very free with your thoughts, Miss Preston, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in hearing them.”

_Obstinate ass_. Celeste bit down on the words before they could slip past her teeth. “It’s obvious that Ianto is a good, hard worker. He’s polite with customers — which is more than can be said of you — and hardly the type to complain, shirk his duties, or make unreasonable demands of you. Most employers would give their eyeteeth to have someone like him on the payroll, a man who can handle heavy lifting _and_ repairs. And as to the gap in his abilities: I could fill that need easily.”

“What on _earth_ do you mean?” George demanded.

“I can’t sit at the Pax’s bar and twiddle my thumbs in perpetuity, Mr. Godfrey,” she said as sweetly as she could, demurely brushing a hand down her skirt. “My funds are dwindling already, and Lotte can’t give me free room and board — she runs a business, not a charity. I’m in need of an occupation. Something to keep me busy during the day and put money in my pocket every night. And I have a knack for record-keeping. And very nice penmanship.”

“…Are you asking me for a _job_?”

“I’m offering my services in your time of need.” She met his dark eyes steadily and with a smile. “Frankly, Mr. Godfrey, I doubt anyone else in town would be willing to work for you. Pay me a reasonable wage, for reasonable hours, and I’ll start inventory tomorrow morning.”

The man opened his mouth — the suspicious, argumentative cuss would argue with Saint Peter himself — then closed it into a thoughtful frown. “…Alright,” he finally said. “You’re hired. But I’ll be keeping a close eye on you. Steal one cent from me or my customers, and I’ll march you to the jail myself. Be here at seven sharp tomorrow.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Godfrey. Now — about those crates?”


	7. Chapter 7

The Pax was always busy after dark, as the _de facto_ meeting house for all of Hazeldine. Tonight, it looked more like a community hall than usual, as James showed those gathered how to set up and remotely trigger box traps.

_Couldn’t be simpler, right?_ he wrote. _The trick will be keeping a close eye on them and moving quickly_.

“You’re sure your cats aren’t playing magpie?” Yvonne asked Jenny, who sat at the bar with one of the said felines, a muted calico, draped over her shoulders like a living stole. “Or one of your hare friends, Val?”

“‘Hare friends’?” Celeste looked at the deputy.

“No,” Jenny said firmly, brushing aside a twitching ginger tail to sip her bourbon.

“They avoid most of town as a rule,” Val said. “They’re leery of the Rutledges’ dogs. Once they’ve delivered their messages, they high-tail it back to the range.”

“You get messages from hares?” Celeste asked.

Val nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

_Rachel and I will watch the one behind the bank_ , James suggested.

“Bram, why don’t you and Jenny—” Yvonne began.

“Nope, unh-uh,” the hedgewitch cut her off. “Count me out of this. I’ve got a potion to decant tonight. Fiddly, time-consuming work. Can’t spend hours staring at a box. Greer, why don’t you partner up with Mr. Hawk? And Yvonne? Don’t you have something to finish writing for tomorrow’s paper?” She shot her a meaningful, sharp look.

“I can’t pull a shift, not with the sheriff patrolling around Grandfather,” Val said. “Cotton and I have to be on call at the lock-up.”

“Nova and I can keep watch behind our office,” Dr. Pendergast offered. “Then, if anyone should need us, I could hear them call. I would like to capture whatever is responsible for making off with one of my most delicate clamps.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Wint suddenly barked, materializing at the end of the bar as a piebald dog nudged open the door and stepped inside. “Git! Go on now!” The spectral man grabbed the broom propped in the corner and waved it at the whining animal until it slunk away, mismatched ears flattened against its head.

“Those poor things are always hungry,” Lotte observed as she refilled Jenny’s glass. “Leland needs to feed them better.”

“I hate to suggest it,” Jenny murmured in an undertone, “because the Rutledges have always struck me as kind, polite men, but have you taken a good look at those dogs? Most of them are covered in scars. A couple look more like quilts than canines.”

“You don’t think he’s making them fight, do you? Or beating them?”

“I hope it’s neither, but it’s odd, don’t you think? Maybe someone should go look into it…”

“I’ll guard a box,” Libby Hawk said, cutting into her pork chop. “After I’ve finished my dinner. I’ve nothing else better to do tonight.”

“I’ve never seen you here for dinner, Miss Hawk,” Celeste said, turning in her chair at the adjacent table.

“As a rule, Hildy and I eat at home,” she replied. “But tonight she ran off without cooking anything. And I’m a disaster in the kitchen — can’t be trusted with an oven. Thankfully, Josie’s as good a cook as Hilds.”

“Where did Hildy run off to?”

Libby shrugged. “She was worked up about something, but then she usually is. I think she wanted to see her sister.”

***

“Brunhilda, I _warned_ you,” Liesel said, taking a pair of china figurines off her mantel before her pacing sister’s sweeping arm could knock them over. She moved around her as if they were in an elaborate, well-practiced folk dance, shifting furniture and heirlooms aside just prior to a collision. With one arm she scooped up a crystal lantern, while the other batted aside Hildy’s elbow.

“Now is not the time for gloating, sister,” Hildy said. “You can do that later. Right now, I need you to help me catch them before they become destructive. The last thing I need is for them to destroy Hermann’s surgery or Bram’s printing press.”

“Very well. I’ll help you. And _then_ you are getting rid of the little pests.”

“Getting rid of them? What are you suggesting? That I poison them?” Hildy froze, shock and horror vivid on her expressive face. “Liesel! You know how clever they are! I can’t kill anything with that sort of intelligence!”

“I’m not that heartless,” Liesel glared. “I meant you should ship them back to Germany. Send them to Cousin Franz or Uncle Heinrich. They’ll set the little beasts free in a remote place where they can’t do any harm.”

“No, I can’t.” Hildy was obstinate. “After so many years with our family? They’re too domesticated to survive in the wild.”

“Obviously the current situation is untenable!” said Liesel. “You aren’t distracting them enough. Either you cut back on your business to give them more attention, or you send them away. Those are your only options.”

Hildy gnawed at her bottom lip as her broad shoulders slumped. “…You have a point,” she conceded. “If only one of us had taken more after Father. A clockmaker could keep them satisfied. So many little parts and tools…”

“Do you still have that whistle Father made?”

“I searched through all of my boxes, but no luck. I was hoping you had it?”

Liesel sighed. “It may have ended up in Mother’s hope chest.” She took up a candle and went to the tiny back room she used for storage. Packed away in a pair of trunks and their mother’s hope chest was everything from their old lives in the Old Country. The bits of the past she hadn’t been able to part with but never wanted to look at again. The chest’s lid — carved all over with brightly painted flowers, the edges gilded with gold — creaked as she lifted it.

At the very top, lying against dresses folded between sheets of tissue paper and satchels of moth-repelling herbs, were her ice skates. The mere sight of them made Liesel’s jaw clench until her teeth ached.

Grim-faced, she pushed them aside and slid her hands beneath the clothing. Mother’s wedding gown, her christening clothes, Grandfather’s military uniform studded with his medals and fraying ribbons of valor. Her fingertips brushed a small wooden box and she quickly seized it and drew it up through the layers of history, slamming the chest’s lid shut with a gust of dust.

Inside were the contents of Father’s pockets, the accoutrements he’d never left home without. His gold fob watch, engraved with the date of his graduation from University with a water-stained photo of Mother tucked inside the lid. The hands were frozen at 4:31. His ivory-inlaid pocket knife. A packet of tiny screwdrivers, picks, and pins. His reading spectacles in their clasped case with the velvet lining. His lucky coin, the one embossed with the head of a king two hundred years dead. A monogrammed silk handkerchief, yellowed with age. And a small gold whistle on a chain.

Liesel could remember, as a small girl, watching her father draw each item from his many waistcoat pockets and lay them out on the top of his dresser every night before bed. Each piece would be placed just so, all in the same order, the same distance apart. Father was a meticulously neat man; that was what she’d inherited from him. Brunhilda had gotten his outgoing personality, the booming voice and easy charm, and she had gotten his exacting need for order; they’d both inherited his colorless hair and blue eyes. Everything else — their height, their marble-like skin, their awful gift — had come from Mother.

“There it is!” Hildy said joyfully when she handed her the whistle. “Remember when he would have them do little tricks at the dinner table to make us laugh? The funny dances he taught them to do?”

“I’ve remembered enough for one night,” Liesel said. Her voice was flat, her beautiful face blank. “Take that lidded basket and let’s get this over with.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Miss Preston—”

“I wish you’d call me Celeste, Ianto. Unless you’d prefer I call you by your surname? …What _is_ your surname?”

“It’s Llewellyn, Miss Preston, but Ianto’s fine. And I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be right for me to use your Christian name.”

“Alright, Mr. Llewellyn. Whatever makes you comfortable. …You were about to ask me something?”

“I just wanted to thank you for what you said to Mr. Godfrey. About how he should keep me on. I’m in your debt now.”

Celeste waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all. And, just so you know, there’s no shame in being illiterate. My best friend Sibyl couldn’t read, either. I offered to teach her once. She told me it would be useless. That letters just wouldn’t stay put for her the way they did for everyone else.”

“Really?” There was a high note of surprise in that single word. “I didn’t know it happened to other people.”

“And I envy you your knack for numbers. I’m awful at math. So I’ll let you handle the till exclusively.”

“Are you _sure_ you want to work at Godfrey’s Goods, miss?”

“Is Mr. Godfrey as bad a boss as he is a conversationalist?”

“No, no, he’s actually one of the best bosses I’ve ever had,” Ianto said. His earnestness surprised her. “Actually, I hardly see him during the day. I go up in the morning to eat breakfast with him in his kitchen, and he tells me what he wants done that day. Then I go downstairs and do the chores and wait on the customers. He hardly ever comes downstairs or yells at me. Some days, we’ll only share twenty or thirty words between us.”

“So he just sits upstairs all day and lets you do everything?”

“That’s how it was before the elder Mr. Godfrey died. Mr. George would stay upstairs and Mr. John ran the store.”

“He hates people that much?”

Ianto sat quietly beside her for a long moment. They were keeping watch on a trap baited with a polished geode and set up at the end of the alley behind Godfrey’s Goods, perched on a large crate and hidden behind a beautifully painted folding screen Yu Jie had lent them for the evening.

It was an incongruous tableau that would have caused plenty of comment in normal society. But while one of her feet had fallen asleep with unpleasant prickles, Celeste was actually enjoying herself. The strangeness of the situation was rather entertaining.

“…I don’t think it’s hate so much as fear,” Ianto finally whispered. “Or maybe not fear. Maybe it’s… discomfort? I think it pains Mr. Godfrey, being around people. It’s like talking drains him. Gives him headaches. I know he uses a lot of powders and pills.”

“He takes drugs?” Celeste looked at him in alarm.

“No, not drugs. Medicine. Nothing very strong. The sort of things fancy ladies take when they feel faint or tired. Restoratives.”

“I know some individuals can be exhausting to be around, but avoiding everyone seems a bit extreme. …What does he do all day, do you know?”

“Reads, I think. There are bookcases everywhere upstairs, even in the kitchen. Piles of books along the walls on the staircase. There must be thousands of them.”

“Hell of a fire hazard to live in,” Celeste mused aloud, then realized Ianto was staring at her. “Yes?”

“Pardon me, Miss Preston, but you speak very plainly for a lady.”

“That’s because I’m not a lady. I spent most of my life working in factories in New York. And the rest of it in frontier towns. My manners have never needed to be all that polished.”

“Oh. When you first arrived, I thought…”

_When I first arrived I was playing the respectable young miss to the hilt_ , Celeste mentally filled in the sentence. _The sort of genteel, available woman a man would order by mail._ But somehow, in the last three weeks, without being aware of it, she’d dropped most of her masks. She’d been acting like herself, not Sally Harper or Susan Garvey or Sarah Weston. That was dangerous. It could easily come back to bite her. She needed to be more careful…

“Ianto,” she said. “I know you’re no gossip like Miss Bae, but, will you promise to keep what I’ve told you close to your vest? I’d rather not have everyone in town know about my background.”

“Anything you say to me will go no further, Miss Preston,” the older man swore. She believed him — so long as he thought himself indebted to her for his job, Ianto’s loyalty was sacrosanct. Suddenly, for the first time since Sibyl’s death, Celeste realized she had a confidante. Jenny and Lotte she already considered friends, but she could be honest with Ianto in a way she couldn’t with them. And, unlike those prosperous, settled ladies, Ianto Llewellyn would understand what it felt like to be rootless and alone, what it meant to rely solely on your own wits and skill.

“To answer your previous question, Mr. Llewellyn,” Celeste said, patting his knee warmly. “Yes, I’m sure I want to work with you at Godfrey’s Goods. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it.”

Being daily in George Godfrey’s orbit, with endless reasons to intrude on his self-imposed solitude, would get her to her goal much, much sooner.

***

_What a sight we are_ , Liesel thought as she followed her sister through town. A sturdy basket with a locking lid hung from the crook of one arm, while she held one of Dr. Pendergast’s butterfly nets in the opposite hand (the good doctor had looked confused when she asked to borrow it, but had assented without asking why she needed it at ten o’clock in the evening). Hildy was carrying a large chunk of fresh gingerbread, which she waved back and forth like a censer every time she crouched low and blew a piping note on the whistle. While Hildy was unconcerned by how undignified — how downright silly — she looked, _as always_ , Liesel was burning with embarrassment. _I pray none of my students see us_ …

They reached the smithy. With its preponderance of tools and pungent scents of smoke and oil, it was the sort of place that would draw a maturing knocker like a magnet.

And, sure enough, when Hildy squatted low and whistled, there was an answering clatter of tiny feet from within. A curious face appeared around the edge of the massive bellows Greer used to stoke her fire. The knocker’s fur was so streaked with soot and coal dust it blended almost seamlessly into the dim space; the pale skin of its face and the huge eyes gleaming green in the darkness seemed to float disembodied in the air. When it crept closer into the light of the street’s lanterns, they could see it held a lumpy knob of cast-off iron in one hand.

Hildy edged nearer and held out the gingerbread. “I’ve got a sweet treat, _liebchen_ ,” she cooed. “Come now, you’ve played enough…”

With a soft trill that shifted into a rattling burble, the knocker hopped to Hildy and snatched a handful of gingerbread. The combination of sugar and ginger was irresistible for a knocker — it had an effect on them similar to catnip on felines — and the soporific quality of the molasses took hold almost immediately. As the tiny creature swayed with a dreamy expression, Liesel deftly scooped it up with her net and deposited it into the blanket-lined basket, firmly latching the lid on a high-pitched whistle of a snore. 

“One down, one to go,” Hildy beamed at her.

“You’re _absolutely_ certain?” Liesel demanded.

“Absolutely. Well, _very_ confident. Did you ever see a litter bigger than three?”

“I wasn’t as obsessed with the little beasts as you were. I spent my afternoons reading, not staring at them.”

“Why do you hate them so much?” Hildy asked, lip pouted. “Why are you so insistent that they’re nasty monsters? Can’t you find _anything_ sweet about them?”

Liesel sighed. “Brunhilda, it’s not as if I truly _despise_ them. I’m indifferent about them, so long as they don’t cause any problems. I’ve just never seen them as a decent pet. A pet should serve a purpose, should contribute to the household. Dogs guard and herd. Cats keep down the mice and rats. Even a bird makes beautiful music. All kobolds make are trouble and headaches.”

“Not everything in life has to be useful,” Hildy insisted, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “Even the frivolous, the things that just bring you joy or pleasure, have value. Knockers make me laugh. They’re funny, affectionate creatures. Just looking at them makes my heart squeeze. That’s a contribution. Happiness is a purpose.”

“Alright,” Liesel conceded with a wan smile. “I understand. I won’t complain or lecture any more. Now, let’s finish this so I can get some sleep.”

***

That was easier said than done.

The Grubens found the second knocker at Mr. Schumacher’s store. Either the creature thought itself an elf or it simply liked the cobbler’s hammer. The sound of sharp tapping echoed through an open window in the back, one just large enough for Liesel to slip through with a boost from her sister. After smoothing her disheveled skirt and blouse, she unlocked the back door and prayed Mr. Schumacher would remain sound asleep upstairs. Luckily, the man was more than half-deaf, else he’d have already ventured down to investigate.

When they stepped into the workroom with their lantern, the knocker froze in mid-blow. A forest of shoe nails surrounded it, half-hammered into the table.

“Damn,” Liesel muttered as Hildy’s offer of seductive gingerbread was eagerly accepted. “You’ll have to offer to pay for the repairs, you know. The entire table will need patching and sanding.”

“Not a problem. I’m sure Ianto will jump at the chance to get away from Mr. Godfrey for a couple hours.” She gently deposited the sleeping knocker next to the first, tucked the blanket closer around them, and closed the basket. “Should we leave a note on the door to warn Mr. Schumacher before he walks in on this? He seems a sturdy enough fellow, but I’d hate—”

A sudden scream and burst of noise outside made them both jump. The sounds of something large falling, wood smashing, feet running, voices yelling.

“What the hell is that thing?” someone shouted.

“Something tells me there were _four_ in that litter,” Liesel seethed, gathering up her skirts to sprint.


	9. Chapter 9

Celeste and Ianto had been sitting silently at opposite ends of the folding screen, each peering around their respective edge at the box trap. They both held ropes to trigger it, and were both feeling stiff from sitting so long. Celeste reached up to rub the back of her neck and roll her head to alleviate the ache in her shoulders; when she opened her eyes and looked up at the top of the screen, she found a large pair of green eyes staring back at her.

For a heartbeat, she was frozen. So was the monkey-like face above her. A small pair of prehensile hands had stilled in the process of peeling a strip of gilt from the screen’s frame.

Then the odd creature opened its mouth and let loose a loud rattling sound, like a stone bouncing against wood, and Celeste shrieked more from surprise than actual fear. Ianto jolted up and turned, yanking the rope he held. The box trap several feet away crashed closed, startling the creature into leaping wildly from the screen, which immediately tilted and fell onto Celeste.

Her shriek and the ruckus of everything crashing brought a rush of people seemingly from every direction. In the chaotic confusion, she crawled out from beneath the cracked screen and pointed after the fleeing creature. “There it goes! It’s getting away!”

“What the hell is that thing?” shouted Bram as they gave chase.

_If you told me a month ago I’d be part of a mob chasing a bizarre monkey gopher…_ Celeste thought, hands full of her skirts as she kept pace with the fleet-footed Nova. Whatever the thing was, it was fast, but not as fast as a rabbit. It had dropped to all fours and seemed almost to roll rather than run, its roly-poly body like a ball bowled down the road. Rather than zig-zag or dart for the closest hole or patch of shadows, it moved purposefully in an almost straight line down Main Street.

Without warning, one of the Rutledge dogs streaked out of an alley, arrowing in on the creature. Celeste felt her gorge rise, certain the dog would tear into the animal in the next moment. She didn’t want to see it — and once the poor thing was ripped to pieces, how would they ever determine what it was?

But the dog, strangely, streaked past the creature, tongue lolling and ears flapping, content to merely race whatever it was. And as the dog gained ground, the fat beast made a flying leap onto its back, human-like hands grabbing hold of its shaggy ruff.

_I’m chasing a monkey gopher_ that’s riding a dog _. This_ has _to be a dream_.

The dog and its unusual rider reached the Rutledge Telegraph and Post Office — and skidded to a stop with a flurry of braying barks. Two other mutts, snoozing against the front wall, perked up at the sight of several panting, sweaty townspeople stumbling toward them. A heartbeat later, the electric lightbulb over the door flicked on with a droning buzz, the door itself swinging open to reveal a tall, thin man in silhouette.

“Christ Almighty, what’s going on here?” demanded Leland Rutledge. He wore a white apron over his pinstriped trousers and snowy shirt, his long sleeves rolled up past the elbows to reveal sinewy arms. More than seventy, Rutledge still had plenty of whipcord muscle on his slim frame, and fire in the pale eyes half-sunk in a leathery, wrinkled face. The thick white hair that fell to his shoulders was streaked with gray and curled slightly.

“Pardon us, Mr. Rutledge,” Dr. Pendergast gasped, pulling out his polka-dotted handkerchief to mop his reddened brow. “We were in pursuit of a thief!”

“A thief? What was stolen?”

Before anyone could elaborate, the creature sprang from the dog’s back and began clambering up Rutledge’s leg.

“Please! Don’t hurt it!” shouted a strident, thickly-accented voice from the back of the crowd. “It only acts in his nature!”

“C’mere, you,” Rutledge said calmly, scooping up the fat animal. “Making mischief in town, were you? Well, Madame Gruben, it seems some explanations are in order.”

“Why, that looks like a gremlin!” Dr. Pendergast exclaimed, peering closer. “I have not seen one since I was a boy in Germany!”

Blushing violently, Hildy stepped through the crowd. “ _Ja_ , Hermann. It is a knocker. I brought some with me, from back home. And he escaped, with two brothers. They have been stealing the things. I am sorry for all of this trouble.”

“So that’s where he came from,” Rutledge said, grinning. The knocker pulled itself onto his shoulder and hid within his hair. “I found him in my workshop yesterday morning, trying to take apart my voltaic piles. He’s a sharp little thing. I started explaining my electricity experiments and I swear he understood what I was saying. Been calling him Ben, after Ben Franklin.”

“He likes you very much, Mr. Rutledge,” said Hildy. “They only climb on people they trust.”

“I’ve gotten fond of him myself. It’s been nice having someone else in the lab with me.” One of the dogs sat down on the man’s foot and he fondly ruffled its ears. “He gets along with my boys, too. They don’t see him as dinner, and they’ll eat just about anything.”

Hildy glanced at her sister, then back to Rutledge, and burst into a giant smile. “Mr. Rutledge, may I make suggestion to you?”

***

“You’re not afraid they’ll destroy the telegraph set-up? Or blow up your equipment?” Liesel asked as she opened the last basket. Six green eyes glowed up at her.

“Miss Gruben, I blow up my own equipment every other day,” Leland Rutledge chuckled. “Sometimes even on purpose. Electricity isn’t the most stable or forgiving of elements. I’ve been working with it most of my life, and I still can’t say I’ve mastered it. Doubt anyone ever will. It’s a force of pure life, the heartbeat of nature distilled to light and heat.”

“Even so, I want you to be aware of how destructive these animals can be.”

“No more so than man. And just as curious, too. I like an inquisitive mind. Don’t worry too much, Miss Gruben. I know how to take necessary precautions. And as your sister said, they’re calmer when they’re kept busy. And I’ve got plenty to occupy them here.” Rutledge watched as the last three knockers joined the others gathered around his smallest generator. The little faces stared at the humming box with an expression of pure rapture, like the faithful beholding a manifestation of the divine. “…And it seems that just being around mechanical objects has a soothing effect on them. I can certainly relate to that.”

Empty baskets hooked on her arm, Liesel followed the old man out into the adjoining, much quieter room that served as the Hazeldine post office, grateful to escape the hot and oppressive air of the scientific workshop. Sitting behind the counter was the postmaster: his son Caleb Rutledge, forty-one and a huge hulk of a man who hunched constantly. He wore long sleeves even in the hottest weather, collar buttoned high around his thick neck. Caleb nodded politely at her as she passed, but didn’t speak or meet her eyes.

He rarely did either. In his youth, the younger Rutledge had been in a terrible accident that left him badly scarred. A jagged, diagonal line bisected his face, beginning in a raised lump above the line of his sandy brown hair and ending somewhere below his collar. His thick nose was crooked from scar tissue and a badly set break. It was a shocking disfigurement at first glance, the plum-hued marks from uneven stitches livid against the white of the rest of his skin. But Caleb wasn’t exactly ugly, either. He had soft, kind eyes and a lovely smile that was far too infrequent. Very rarely did he venture from the post office.

“Brunhilda and I would like to have dinner with you soon, Caleb,” Liesel said. “Would you come? It will be just the three of us, at my house. She has a new pecan pie recipe she’d like your opinion on.”

“That sounds nice, Miss Gruben.” Even at a murmur, his deep voice resonated through the room. “It’d be an honor. Would Thursday night be alright?”

“Thursday would be perfect. Good day, Caleb.”

“Good day, Miss Gruben.”

“Thank you,” Rutledge said after they’d stepped outside and closed the door. “For your kindness to my boy. I encourage him to go out more; he knows by now that this is a good town, with good people. But he’s always gonna be shy, and he worries about scaring folks.”

A pair of dogs sauntered over, drawn by the sight of Liesel’s baskets. “Sorry,” she said as they sniffed with interest. “No treats today.”

“They’re all bottomless pits,” Rutledge said, crouching to pat them. “I could feed them every hour of every day and they’d still want more.”

“Mr. Rutledge,” Liesel said slowly, eyes following his hands as they stroked across mottled coats latticed with pale lines left by old wounds. “Jenny East has been concerned about your dogs. About all of the scars they have.”

“Like Caleb, they’ve had more than their fair share of ill fortune,” Rutledge said somberly. “I’ve had to nurse all of my boys back to good health. Unfortunately, I’m not a doctor — just a scientist. I did what I could, what I had to. They may not win any beauty pageants, but they’re still good dogs. Still happy, too, ain’t ya?” He ruffled the dog’s ears and jowls as it wagged a crooked tail and licked at his hands. “That’s right; you’re a mighty good boy.”

Liesel made a mental note to tell someone to reassure Jenny; Leland Rutledge could no more hurt a dog than he could his own son. And, as much as she disliked the knockers, she had to admit that they had an impeccable sense for people: they never would have taken to Mr. Rutledge if he wasn’t a decent man. If they trusted him, he was trustworthy.

“Thank you, again, for taking this problem off my sister’s plate, Mr. Rutledge,” Liesel said, shaking his hand. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“No thanks necessary, Miss Gruben. I’m delighted to do it. And let your sister know she’s more than welcome to come visit them whenever she likes. Just tell her to knock first, so I can get the more dangerous things put away,” he smiled with a wink.


	10. PART THREE - BOOKS, RATTLESNAKES, A CHALLENGE, THE CHARM

**P A R T T H R E E — B O O K S, R A T T L E S N A K E S, A C H A L L E N G E, T H E C H A R M**

“Sure you don’t want a blessing charm for protection?” Jenny asked. She pushed her plate aside; the calico cat that followed her almost everywhere sprang gracefully from the floor to the stool beside her, then onto the bar, where it quickly lapped up the remnants of her omelet.

“Jen, it’s not like I’m going into battle,” Celeste scoffed. Lord, but Josie made the best coffee she’d ever tasted. She had gotten used to having three cups every morning. This was becoming quite an addiction. “Or riding off to slay a dragon.”

“You don’t know you’re not,” the hedgewitch said darkly. “Maybe there’s a reason why George Godfrey avoids people like the plague. I’ve lived here all my life, same as him, and I can count the number of things I know about the man on one hand.”

The kitchen door banged open. Lotte stepped out with a platter of fresh donuts in one hand and a large coffee pot in the other. “Jennifer Zelda East, you get that animal off my bar,” she ordered. “What’s wrong with you? You know better. People should be able to eat off my bar.”

“Reba’s cleaner than any of the men who eat here,” Jenny said coolly, scooping the cat into her lap, where it began delicately washing its paws and whiskers.

“Have one more donut before you go,” Lotte urged Celeste. “Ma put a little fortitude into the powdered sugar.”

“Really, you two! Between Jenny wanting to drape me in amulets and you fattening me up like a sacrificial offering, I’m starting to think you’re worried about me.”

“Damn straight we are,” Lotte said readily. “Sweetie, if you really want a job that badly, I can hire you on here. It’d be nice to have someone else to split the chores with, and Ma could teach you how to cook without setting fire to everything.”

“Thank you for the offer, Lotte. Really. But I hate cooking. And I’m looking forward to a real challenge. I’ll be just fine.”

“You know, you’re just as obstinate as the Godfreys. You probably _will_ be fine. Alright, we’ll stop mother henning. But you should still take another donut — you need a full stomach and plenty of energy to tackle a challenge like George.”

“I think I’ve got just enough room for one more,” Celeste smiled. “Oh, also — do you have some spare twine I could have?”

***

It was five to seven when Celeste stepped past the three old-timers — already stationed in their usual rocking chairs and settling into the business of packing and lighting their pipes — with a polite nod and a brisk rap at the front door.

“Not open yet, ma’mselle,” said a bald black man with a tropical accent. He lifted an elaborately carved meerschaum pipe to his lips. The gold rings on his hand glinted through the resulting cloud of pungent, vanilla-scented smoke. “Godfreys are more punctual than God.”

“Thank you, but I’m here to work. It’s my first day.”

“Jeepers Crimpen, the young’un hired you?” exclaimed the second man, approximately two hundred years old and as wrinkled as a raisin. He had a row of tarnished medals clipped to his shirt and the most peculiar voice Celeste had ever heard, a nasal, breathy whine more suited to a stage villain in a farcical comedy than an actual man.

The last of the trio — Mexican or Native, given the gold cast to his leathery skin, wide chin tattooed with small, faded triangles, and black hair clipped in a razor-edged bowl cut — was clearly the stoic of the group. He gazed at her with a statuesque solemnity, sizing her up dispassionately, as if she were a horse or new plow rather than an attractive woman. She’d never seen a man look at her with such detachment. Then he held out a large hand, took hers, and shook it firmly. “Good luck,” was his ultimate pronouncement before he released her and returned to puffing on his pipe.

The lock clicked loudly behind her. She turned to smile at Ianto as he opened the door and flipped the hand-written sign from **CLOSED** to **OPEN**. “Good morning, Miss Preston,” he said. “Good morning, Captains.”

The trio mumbled a collective greeting, their eyes following them into the store.

“The Captains, huh?” Celeste said, setting her basket on the counter by the register.

“Jean-Roberts claims he was a pirate in the Caribbean. Eustace used to be a captain in the Army. And Xibalba was a sailor in his youth.”

“An unusual trio of friends. Wonder what they have in common?”

“Treasure, or so they say. When I’m at the counter in-between customers, I hear them sometimes. They brag about the riches they’ve found and lost. The adventures of their youth. Well, are you ready to hear your orders for the day?”

Celeste took a small package from her basket, tucked it under her arm, and followed Ianto on a winding path through the shelves. He opened a door to reveal the staircase to the second floor—

 _Good Lord_. Celeste stared, momentarily flummoxed. When Ianto had mentioned books piled along the walls, she hadn’t pictured _this_.

From the steps to the ceiling, hundreds of books had been carefully stacked and interlocked like bricks, leaving the narrowest space open in the center. It looked like a claustrophobic underground tunnel rather than a staircase. _How on earth does George Godfrey squeeze through this without triggering a deadly avalanche?_ _And how could you use a lantern or candle in here?_

“Here, miss,” Ianto said, as if reading her mind, taking what looked like an empty jar off a shelf just outside the door and shaking it until a cloud of sparks kindled inside. “It’s safest to use one of Miss Luisa’s lightning jars. I’ll stay down here. Keep an eye on the counter. Mr. Godfrey asked to speak to you alone.”

 _Not at all ominous_ , Celeste thought as she began carefully ascending. _Maybe Jenny and Lotte were right to be so worried. I suddenly feel like a damsel in one of those bloodier fairy tales, being summoned by a hungry monster…_

As she climbed, her eyes roamed over the spines of the books. Most of them were illegible, too cracked with use and age or too cheaply made from pasteboard and paper that were already disintegrating. But the few she could make out — _Swiss Family Robinson, Godwin’s Scientific Tales For Boys, The Tin Soldier_ — and the once bright colors suggested most were children’s books.

These must have been the first books he read, the ones he had long ago outgrown. Naturally, they would be stacked out of the way now, separate from the collection he still thumbed through regularly.

That he hadn’t simply given or thrown them away was puzzling; was he just stingy? The type who hoarded and hated to discard anything he saw as his?

Or did he still love these battered, crumbling books too much to part with them? Some people, Celeste knew, took comfort from their collections. Just seeing their possessions was soothing and reassuring.

She’d never had enough money or the stability necessary to collect anything, but she could understand the appeal of owning so many books. On the rare times she’d ventured into a library, there had been a sense of… not quite peace. Perhaps security? Being surrounded by so many silent voices, thoughts, dreams, opinions, facts was both exciting and humbling. There was a great feeling of _potential_. As if the answer to any question, any problem, could be hidden in one of the volumes around her, if only she knew just where to look. It would take a lifetime to read that many books…

And it seemed that was just what George Godfrey was doing. Dedicating his life to reading every book.

Was that impressive, or ridiculous?

“You’re punctual, at least,” he said by way of greeting when she stepped into what had to be the parlor; save for the bookcases covering the walls, the only pieces of furniture were two armchairs, a low table, and a richly polished cherrywood rocker draped in an embroidered blanket. He rose from one of the armchairs, dropping a leather-bound volume as thick as a dictionary onto the table as he straightened.

“Good morning, Mr. Godfrey,” she said warmly. “Thank you again for this opportunity. Ianto told me you’re an avid reader, so I brought you something for your collection.”

He frowned at the package she held out. “Miss Preston, is it customary for a new employee to give their bosses gifts?”

“Not at all. But I’d still like you to have it.” Boldly, she caught him by the wrist and pushed the thing into his hand. “Apologies for the crude wrapping. All I had on hand was yesterday’s _Hawk_ and some old twine.”

He tugged sharply away from her hand, then took an extra step back to widen the distance between them, before he ripped off the wrapping.

“Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m not familiar with him.”

“I picked it up in Nevada — the shopkeeper said it’s a brand new collection of mystery stories that have become very popular in England. They’re about a detective.”

George scanned the first page, fingers curled gently around the cover. His stern face softened when he was reading. “Sherlock? What sort of a name is that?”

“I thought it sounded Shakespearian.”

Dark eyes darted up to meet hers. “You’ve read Shakespeare?”

“Only, oh, what was it called? Something about nothing?”

“ _Much_ _Ado_ _About Nothing_.”

“That was it. I had trouble understanding some of it, but I enjoyed it. I liked Beatrice and Benedick.”

“Shakespeare’s comedies are fine, but you should read _Hamlet_. That’s his greatest work.” George strode quickly to a corner shelf, pulling a book out without hesitation. “Here, take this.”

As she reached for it, a flash of emotion crossed his face, too fleeting for her to fully recognize. He froze, then shook his head slightly.

“Thank you. I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m finished,” she said.

“Do that. Well, you should be getting to work,” he said gruffly, drawing back in on himself, stepping quickly aside.

 _He didn’t mean to make such a friendly gesture_ , she realized. _He got caught up in the thought of something he loved, and he forgot he was talking to me_.

“You wanted me to start with an inventory?”

“Yes, Ianto will show you where the books are. My father was diligent about keeping them up to date, and he kept separate records for each section of the store: dry goods in one, equipment and tools in another, and so on. Here are the receipts from the deliveries made since he passed.” He pulled yellow papers, folded into a tight, compact square, from a back pocket and thrust them at her. “These items will need to be added to the records before you check them against the stock.”

“Is there a fresh pad of paper I could use? To keep track of any damages or discrepancies?”

“Anything you need should be under the counter. Ianto knows where everything is by now. We close at noon, for a half-hour, for lunch. I’m frying up a couple catfish.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize lunches were included. Josie made me up a basket.”

“Eat what you want. So long as you know it’s on offer. You can head back to the Pax at five. Any questions, ask Ianto.” He strode swiftly from the room, ducking his head to avoid the lintel. “And thank you for the book,” he grumbled, already out of sight.


	11. Chapter 11

George Godfrey sat at the large square table in his large, cluttered kitchen and stared out the window. The elaborate weathervane crowning the Rutledge Telegraph dominated the view.

He’d probably stared at it ten thousand times, at least once a day since the building was finished twenty-odd years ago, the vane hauled up on a pulley system. He’d seen forks of lightning strike it more than once. He could probably trace its silhouette onto paper with his eyes closed.

But he had no idea what it was supposed to be. It certainly wasn’t a traditional rooster or basic cross-bar representing the four cardinal directions. Perhaps it was an angel; it looked like something winged. And proportions were deceptive from such a distance, but he suspected it was much larger than a normal weathervane, too. Perhaps even man-sized. The thing must weigh close to a ton — why on earth would Leland Rutledge have such a dangerously heavy lightning-magnet on top of his wooden building? 

It was one of the vague questions that had cluttered his mind for years. One of the many that would be easy enough to answer; all he had to do was walk down the street, knock on the Rutledges’ door, and ask Leland about it. It would take five, perhaps ten minutes at the most, and he’d be enlightened. No more squinting or imagining. Mystery solved after twenty years.

But just down the street may as well have been all the way to the moon. If he went outside, he could bump into someone. He’d be expected to shake hands, make eye contact and polite small talk, smile. Outside, there were too many variables and unknowns. Too many things beyond his control. Far, far too many people…

***

When his father had dropped dead over the counter, his first emotion had been — not grief, not even surprise.

No, it had been terror.

Not mere fear or anxiety; paralyzing, sickening terror. He’d stood frozen at the head of the staircase as Deputy Webster shouted his name, shouted for help, took off running down the street for the Doc. Somehow, he’d managed to force his feet into movement and descended half of the steps in pitch darkness before the terror washed over him anew.

His father was dead — he’d felt the absence even before the deputy started his caterwauling — and that meant, after forty-three years, he was completely alone. What would he do now? What _could_ he do now?

Then the door had swung open, bathing him in blinding light. The Doc looked up at him, grave in his brown tweed. “George, I’m afraid I have bad news,” Pendergast said quietly. “Your father’s had a heart attack. There was nothing I could do.”

_Nothing I could do_ …

He tried to open his mouth but couldn’t. What was there to say? For the first time in his life every single word abandoned him.

“Don’t worry,” the Doc went on. He was somber but calm. Confident. What must it be like to be so capable and in control? “I can handle the arrangements. Mr. Tupelo has already been notified. Deputy Webster and I will take your father to my place to prepare him for burial. He’ll be laid to rest next to your mother. …I assume you do not want a big service, am I right?”

Mutely, he’d nodded.

“…Would it be alright if I came back and had dinner with you? We could discuss how to handle things, just the two of us.”

Another nod.

He didn’t watch them carry away his father. Never saw his face again.

At some point, he sat down on the third step and tried to push away the terror. Tried — failed — to think coherently as waves of confusion buffeted him. It was like climbing a ladder to escape a flood, but every rung had been sawed through the middle.

Father was dead. Without him to act as intermediary, to stand between him and the world, what was George _going to do?_ How was he to get food, accept deliveries, service customers when an attack could seize him at any moment?

The afternoon light was fading when he heard a soft knock at the door. Then the forlorn creak of the loose bottom hinge as it was pushed open. Light footsteps across the floorboards.

“Mr. Godfrey?”

Sluggishly, he lifted his head. It was the itinerant his father had just been grumbling about the night before, the man who had been doing odd jobs around town, sleeping in the barns of kindly farmers. Father thought he was a gypsy thief, a criminal on the run from Outside law. “We’re closed,” George heard himself say, a stranger’s voice in his own ears. “There’s been a death in the family.”

“Yes, I heard, sir,” the man said, hands thrust into his pockets. He looked like a ragged scarecrow, a wooden frame draped with hand-me-down clothes. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Godfrey. My name’s Ianto Llewellyn. I thought you’d need some help. Running the store.”

“I don’t know you from Adam.”

“No, you don’t.”

There was no elaboration. No list of references or qualifications. He didn’t launch into a passionate defense of his own trustworthiness, didn’t try to sell himself as the perfect assistant or clerk or shopkeep. He just stood there, eyes on the floor, quiet and patient and still, presenting himself to a thorough appraisal.

George realized, through the numbing surrealism that had cocooned the day, that the man — unlike every other person he’d ever met — wasn’t setting off his alarm bells. He wasn’t receiving anything from him, despite their physical proximity. 

“I’m sure people have told you about me,” George said finally. “Mad George the hermit. Do you need a job that badly?”

“I just want to help, Mr. Godfrey.”

_To help. In my hour of need_ … “Alright,” George said, and a little of the icy terror began to crack. Flake away. Somehow, the immediate future didn’t feel quite as daunting and chaotic. “You’re hired. Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn.”

“Ianto will be just fine, sir.”

By the time Pendergast returned with a basket of Josie Barton’s legendary fried chicken and a still-steaming cherry cobbler, George was moving again. He was showing Ianto the layout of the store, how things were organized in the back, how to operate the register.

If the Doc had been surprised, he didn’t show it, not even when the three of them sat down in the kitchen to eat, or when George helped Ianto carry the mattress and blankets from his father’s bed down to the back room to set up a place for the new hire to sleep.

In the short conversation afterwards, they decided John Godfrey would be buried the following afternoon, so that the town could attend and pay their respects, but that Hawley Tupelo wouldn’t fill in the grave until after nightfall, so George could have a private moment to say goodbye after everyone else had gone. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss, George. I know this has been a blow. But should you need anything, big or small, I am just down the street. You need only ask,” Pendergast promised, warm and earnest. If only he had been the one to tend to his mother in her last weeks, instead of Sour Dr. Swearingen; perhaps some of Margaret Godfrey’s suffering would have been eased by his gentle bedside manner.

“Thank you, Doc.”

The first night without Father had been… not difficult so much as strange. Every night of George’s life, they had sat together in the parlor after dinner. Father would give him the day’s newspaper and tell him all of the news that hadn’t ended up in it. What the customers or the Captains had passed on to him, all of the gossip and speculation. Mr. Alvarez’s latest blow up. Who had been seen leaving the Tickled Pink after dark. How bets were already being placed that the Doc’s adopted son would marry the Campbell girl once they were both of age. It was how he came to intimately know the people of Hazeldine without walking among them. It was his window to the outside world.

Then, the news exhausted, they would read for an hour or two. Sometimes aloud, if they’d chosen a play or something especially dramatic. Father would ask how his writing was going, and George would demur. “Still a work in progress. I’m not satisfied with it.” And they’d go to their adjacent rooms, dousing the lanterns with murmured good nights. Soon, he’d hear Father’s rattling snore; he had a knack for falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

But that night, there was silence. Empty armchairs. No newspaper or questions about his unfinished novel.

This was what life was going to be now.

As George lay in bed and stared up at the gray ceiling, hours before he usually retired, some of the earlier panic crept over him again. _What to do, what to do, what to do…_

But then he thought of Ianto Llewellyn downstairs. He wasn’t utterly alone, and he’d already done something that needed to be done — hired new help. _He_ had done that. Not John Godfrey, not Doc Pendergast. He wasn’t completely hopeless.

And if it got too quiet up here, well, he _could_ venture downstairs occasionally. When there weren’t many customers. He had rarely felt an impulse to leave the store, but as a boy he’d enjoyed roaming around the shelves, touching the bolts of fabric, guessing how many nails were in a jar. It wasn’t until his teens, until Mother was gone, that Father had begun insisting he stay upstairs “so as not to tax” himself. Because it “wasn’t worth the risk.”

_What is this feeling?_ he mused as he sank into sleep. _It can’t be… relief?_

***

That had been three, almost four weeks ago. His father had been gone for a month.

And life had, well, gone on. He cooked his meals. He washed his dishes. He read his books. He wrote, and sketched, and stared out the windows. Everything he’d done before.

Except he didn’t feel the way he had before. What had started subtly enough as a creeping sense of dissatisfaction with things he’d always enjoyed was fast becoming undeniably overt. There was an _itch_ he couldn’t scratch, not even with Dante or Spenser or Ovid, his reliable old comrades. He’d try to sit down and focus, only to jump up and begin pacing, restless in mind _and_ body. He’d been going downstairs more and more, even when there were customers.

Then, as the icing on the layer cake of anxiety and frustration and bewilderment, the Universe had to send _her_ into his orbit.

George tore his eyes away from the Rutledge weathervane and looked down at the journal lying on the table before him. His hand, unheeded by the distracted brain, had begun sketching her profile on the empty page. Grunting with exasperation, he tossed the pencil down and crossed his arms over his wide chest.

_Christ’s crucifix_ , he swore. _What was I thinking, hiring her?_

His father’s bride-to-be. A stubborn, loud-mouthed Outsider. Far too pretty and forceful with her opinions.

She had to be a witch. What else explained his bizarre attraction to her? His skin prickled and burned around her, an obvious warning sign to keep his distance, and yet he still felt compelled to seek her out. He’d _left the store_ to argue with her. More than once. And he did it without conscious thought; he’d see her walking down the street from a window, or the image of her would pop into his head, and before he was even aware that he was moving he’d find himself stomping along the wooden walkway of Main Street, muttering to himself about uppity women with ulterior motives.

She must’ve cast some sort of spell over him — or hexed him. Yes, this felt more like a hex than an enchantment. Now that his father was gone, she was working her magic on him. Godfrey’s Goods was too tempting of a prize for her to abandon.

When she’d brazenly asked for a job, he’d capitulated because he thought it would provide an opportunity to uncover her devious scheme. If he could find proof that she was misusing magic — a poppet or rune, forbidden ingredients, a bewitching charm or vial — or just plain stealing from him, then he could report her to the Sheriff. With enough proof, he could have her locked up somewhere out of sight and mind, and he’d be free of this unnatural preoccupation with her.

He had to work fast; last night she’d invaded his dreams. What had started as a favorite fantasy of his, riding in a plush compartment of the Orient Express through snowy mountains, had quickly fractured when she marched into the empty car, swathed in the furs of a Russian empress, and sat down beside him. They’d begun arguing about their destination: he was looking forward to going home, while she insisted he’d locked himself up for too long. “It’s a miracle you haven’t gone crazy,” she said, fire in her voice and brown eyes. “You need to see more than your bedroom walls. You need to talk to someone other than Ianto.”

“But I _can’t_ ,” he said. “I can’t.”

“You _won’t_. There’s a huge difference. George, you have to stop living such a small life. No one is keeping you locked up here any more.”

And suddenly, in that abrupt fashion of dreams, she was kissing him. With a passion and zeal that made him burn. Her soft hands slid beneath his coat, the vanilla scent of her filled his nose, he crushed her to him with a ragged moan—

Then he woke with a shuddering jolt, in a state he hadn’t been in for months, clutching his pillow. The cold water in the washbasin hadn’t been enough, and he was forced to take himself firmly in hand.

It felt like a betrayal; his control shattered, his mind invaded, his defenses toppled. A rational man reduced to a base creature. 

He had to find a way to prevent any future dreams. Perhaps he could order a potion for senseless sleep from Jenny East. Fight magic with magic…

The book she’d given him lay next to his journal. Like her, it drew and repelled him in equal measure. A brand new author, one who might prove to be compelling, enlightening, was a nigh-irresistible lure. Already he was intrigued by the hero’s unusual name. But then she must have anticipated that. The gift could be another trap just waiting to be sprung. He couldn’t risk it.

To distract himself, he started pacing. Across the kitchen, down the hall. Past Mother’s bedroom, a shrine sealed for thirty years, and the study with his writing desk and Father’s model ships. Through the parlor (ignoring the beckoning staircase) and down the second hall, past his bedroom and Father’s, then the lavatory with its titanic claw-footed tub and gleaming porcelain tiles, the craft room full of Mother’s embroidery supplies and the boxes of battered toy soldiers from his youth.

Reaching the furthest wall, he turned and retraced his steps. Walking had always cleared his mind.


	12. Chapter 12

Celeste glanced up at the creaking ceiling as a sprinkle of dust fell over her head. “Is he marching up there?”

“He’s been doing that a lot this past week,” Ianto said. “He’s restless about something.”

_Me, most likely_ , she thought. _The man seems to positively despise change_. _Almost as much as he despises people, and fresh air, and women who speak their minds. Having to hire me must stick in his craw like a fishbone._

“There’s twenty-two here, miss,” Ianto said, carefully restacking the cans onto the shelf, twisting them so every label faced out in perfect alignment. “But this one’s got a bad dent in it.”

“Into the discard box with it,” Celeste said with assurance, making a note on her pad. “We can’t sell anything that’s damaged.”

“It still looks airtight.” He tilted the can with a thoughtful frown.

“Even so, the seal may be broken enough to spoil the fruit inside. As responsible shopkeepers, we can’t run the risk of a customer getting sick from our products.”

“No leaking… Miss, will we just be throwing away these damages?”

“Officially, yes,” she said, putting a slight stress on the first word. Technically, it wouldn’t be stealing if Ianto decided to tuck a few of the discards into his own cupboard. It would be no different than if he rescued them from the trashcan later; this way he could merely skip that extra step. They truly couldn’t sell damaged goods and would be ordering replacements anyway.

The door jangled open and Seung Bae entered with a large canvas bag slung over one broad shoulder. “Good morning, Ianto. Miss Preston. I heard I’d see you here.”

“I’m fairly certain I only told Jenny and Lotte about this new job,” Celeste said. “So how did Yvonne find out?”

“Lotte told Josie, who told Wint, who mentioned it to Yvonne. Word always gets around quickly here; we’re a tight-knit community. Are you liking the work so far?”

“So far. But it’s barely ten o’clock. Ask me again at five.”

Mr. Bae flashed her a saucy smile. “I’ll be sure to do that. Anyway, I didn’t just stop in to say hello. I’m here to pick up my usual ammunition and pay my tab.”

Ianto moved briskly to the long glass case behind the counter, took a small copper key from around his neck, and unlocked the lid. Moving with exaggerated care, he pulled two fat boxes of bullets out and slid them over.

“Mr. Bae,” Celeste began, unable to repress her curiosity. “You introduced yourself as a gunslinger and a gambler.”

“That’s right,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Only, in the weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve never once heard or seen a gunfight. Hazeldine seems to be seriously lacking all manner of desperadoes, drunkards, or horse-thieves.”

“Well, Miss Preston, that is true. It’s not often that I’m called upon to draw on someone. But I’m not just a gunslinger: I’m a sharp-shooter. And that skill comes in handy quite often, even in a quiet place like Hazeldine. Take, for example…” He hefted his bag onto the counter and tugged open the drawstring. A tangle of brown, diamond-scaled snakes spilled out onto the polished mahogany with a cacophonous rattle.

Celeste recoiled with a reflexive squeal of horror.

“It’s alright, Miss Preston. They’re all dead as doornails,” Mr. Bae chuckled, pulling one rattlesnake loose and holding it out. “See this hole at the center of the head? Courtesy of my Colt, steady finger, and sharp eye. We’ve got a real problem with rattlers in the fields around town, especially out near the Grandfather. So my primary job is to keep the population in check. I do a patrol every morning just as the ground starts to heat up, when they’re at their most active.”

“Alone? You’re not afraid of being bitten?”

“Not at all, miss,” the man smiled, flicking up the brim of his hat with his thumb. “Lucky me, I’m immune to reptile venom.”

“How on earth did you figure that out?”

“It’s just a known fact about my kind.” Before Celeste could demand clarification, he turned back to face Ianto. “Is there enough here to cover the month’s tab?”

“Nine, ten, eleven,” Ianto murmured as he sorted, his usual hesitation gone, utterly fearless about touching extremely venomous snakes. Perhaps they’d all been shot through the head, but Celeste had heard about dead animals striking one last time, the muscles in jaws or tails clenching in a death throe. “…Seventeen. Yes, sir, that covers it.”

“Wait — we accept rattlesnakes as payment?”

“Actually,” Ianto explained, pulling out another bag from beneath the counter and dropping the rattlers into it, “only about half of our customers use traditional currency. A lot of Hazeldine operates on a barter system. The witches and magic-users prefer to trade favors.”

“So what are we going to do with seventeen rattlesnakes? Deposit them at Mr. Alvarez’s bank?”

“I’ll give most of them to Miss Jenny when she comes in today. A couple will go to Miss Nellie, and two or three to Mr. Sorensen, the pig farmer. The misses need them as ingredients — rattlesnake fat and venom are useful for all sorts of salves and potions. In Mr. Sorensen’s case, he just likes the taste of them.” The snakes all bagged and out of sight, Ianto scrubbed the countertop with a rag dipped into a can of lemon-scented polish.

“Snori says they taste like chicken, only sweeter,” Mr. Bae said. “I’ve never tried his snake stew myself, but according to Jen it’s delicious.”

“And in return for the snakes,” Ianto went on, “Miss Jenny will give us a month’s supply of her headache powder, Miss Nellie will pay us in coin, and Mr. Sorensen will deliver a side of ham next time he slaughters a pig. And when Miss Jenny sells the arthritis salves and protection charms she makes from the fat and rattles, she’ll get vegetables or coin or a new dress. It all goes around in a big circle through town, like the ripple from a skipping stone. Most of our meals come courtesy of the bartering, like the catfish from Mrs. Dupree that Mr. Godfrey will be frying up for lunch.”

It wasn’t that Celeste _disliked_ such a system; it made far more sense to take useful things like food and bullets as payment rather than pieces of paper or metal that had an arbitrary value assigned to them, and couldn’t even be eaten if you were in dire straits. But she still had to ask: “How do you decide what’s valuable and what isn’t? Who says seventeen snakes are worth two boxes of bullets?”

“No one, exactly, miss. I just imagine what something could be exchanged for. Who would want or need it, and what they’d be willing to give us for it. After a couple days, you get a feeling for a fair balance. If someone brings you enough fresh vegetables to feed four people for three days, what would that have cost you at another market? You estimate the amount, then allow the farmer to ‘spend’ that much on equipment or supplies. Maybe you give Mrs. Carlyle enough fabric to make two dresses, then she keeps one for herself and gives you one back to sell.”

“That certainly makes sense. I’ve just never seen a store this big take anything but hard cash.”

“Hazeldine—”

Before Mr. Bae could finish, Celeste interjected with, “isn’t like most towns. Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Sorry,” he said ruefully. “Guess I’ve been here long enough to pick up that old gospel refrain. When Yvonne and I first arrived, we heard it a lot ourselves.”

“I didn’t realize you were Outsiders.”

“Oh, we still are. Always will be. You could live here the rest of your life, Miss Preston, fifty or sixty years, and the locals would still see you as an Outsider. Well, I’d better be going. Things to do and people to see.” Nodding at them each in turn, the man departed, bag of bullets in hand.


	13. Chapter 13

Damn his weak will.

Tired of pacing, he’d sat back down at the kitchen table. Stared at the Doyle book. Decided to glance at the table of contents…

The sound of the staircase door opening jolted him back to reality. Two hours had disappeared, he hadn’t even started preparing lunch, and he was halfway through the Sherlock collection. _Damn and blast and hellfire_. He shoved a pencil between the pages to mark his place and stood, pushing the chair back with a sharp squeak as Ianto entered the room, closely followed by Celeste Preston.

“Thought you brought a meal,” he growled, shoving a hand through his hair.

“Ianto says you’re an amazing cook. I wanted to see if he was right. And catfish sounds better than a bacon sandwich.”

“I, uh, lost track of time,” George muttered. “It’ll be a few more minutes.”

“We can wait downstairs if that’s better, sir,” Ianto suggested, already stepping back.

“Or we could help you,” Celeste countered, sharp eyes landing on the spice rack hanging on the wall next to the sink. She breezed past him and began examining the tall jars. “My word, but you have a lot of seasonings. Don’t think I’ve tasted half of these before. Which do you prefer for catfish?”

“Don’t. Touch. Anything,” he barked, slapping a broad pan down onto the stovetop with a _bang!_

“Lunch will be ready twice as quickly if you let me help.”

“No, it won’t, because all you’ll do is make a mess of things. I know exactly where everything is, and you’re just getting in the way.” He reached out as she lifted his apron off its hook and snatched it from her hands. “It’s too big for you.”

“Cloth can be folded, you know.”

“Just get out of here. Go sit in the parlor.” Hastily knotting the apron’s straps around his waist, he opened the ice cabinet and took out three of the six catfish from the top shelf.

“What is _that_?” Celeste gasped, stepping closer. He could feel the heat of her on his arm, and was forced to twist aside as she yanked open the cabinet and peered inside. “How does it stay so cold? Doesn’t the ice melt after an hour or two?”

“It will if you keep opening the door! Close it!”

She did, then ran her hands along the wooden sides. He gulped, his eyes following her long fingers as they stroked down the grain of the walnut boards. “How does it work? Is this more magic?”

“…Yes and no. It’s an Elkins ice cabinet. My father ordered it from New York several years ago. You put ice in the box at the bottom, and it funnels the cold air through each layer. The charm on the door just keeps the ice from melting.”

“It’s incredible.”

While Ianto stood out of the way in the corner, watching without a word, George took down the bottle of cooking oil and filled the pan. Lit the gas range and adjusted the flame. The fish knife made a satisfying _shhhh_ as he drew it from the heavy wooden block; he focused on the skinning and filleting, carefully navigating the dozens of tiny bones. As he finished peeling the meat away from the last skeleton, he heard a rattling clink in the cupboard behind him.

“If you don’t stop and leave this kitchen this instant—” he bellowed, turning to glare daggers at an innocent-faced Celeste, who was scooping spoonfuls of flour from the jar into a mixing bowl.

“You need flour for the batter, don’t you?” She blinked serenely at him, then dipped her hand into the basket of eggs. “Just one, or two?”

“…Two,” he managed to say through gritted teeth. “And two cups of flour. Don’t use a soup spoon, it’s no good for measuring. Use that cup, over there.”

“I should probably confess that I’m not very good in the kitchen,” she said, calmly dumping the flour back into the jar and taking the measuring cup off its hook. “The only thing I really know how to make is a cup of tea—” Her attempt to crack an egg on the edge of the bowl left her holding a smashed ruin that dripped equal amounts of yolk and shell shards into the newly-measured flour. “…Whoops.”

Sighing gustily, he grabbed the bowl and dumped the contents into the wastebasket, tossing her a towel to wipe off her hand. “I just knew it,” he grumbled. “Making a mess for me to clean up…” Two _more_ cups of flour were measured out.

With a deft flick of his wrist, he split an egg and dropped the unbroken yolk into the bowl. Hardly looking where he was reaching, he selected garlic, salt, dried dill, cayenne, and more from the spice rack, adding a pinch of one and a dash of another.

“Guess I should move your books before I spill anything on them,” she said. He looked up to see her reaching for the leather journal he’d negligently left lying open.

_The sketch!_

Heart rocketing into his mouth, he threw himself across the table, flour-streaked hand crashing onto the pages with a force that made everything in the kitchen, including Ianto, jolt.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he gasped, eyes wide. She blinked, expressionless, as he dragged the journal across the table, slammed it shut, and thrust it onto a shelf far out of her reach. He swallowed convulsively, sure he’d gone ghost white, and went back to the spice rack.

“I’ve never met a man who was this comfortable in a kitchen,” Celeste went on as if the moment had never happened, stepping smoothly out of his way when he yanked a whisk from a drawer and began stirring the ingredients together. “Do you enjoy cooking?”

He grunted, dropping the whisk in the sink and dipping the fillets in the batter until they were well-coated. The oil had begun to bubble and hiss, and he was careful to ease the fish into the pan. He’d splashed oil onto his hands and arms before and had no interest in repeating the experience; thankfully, it hadn’t been enough to leave scars, but even a speck of hot oil burned like hellfire. If it didn’t produce such delicious food, he wouldn’t go near the stuff.

“Ianto, you can slice the bread,” he said without looking over his shoulder, and heard the man promptly move to comply. Why couldn’t Miss Preston be like him? Why didn’t she just stay in her proper place and do as she was told and _stop touching things_?

He turned — and found a pair of metal tongs in front of his face. “I’m assuming you wanted these?” Celeste smiled, clacking the raven foot-shaped ends together.

“Thanks,” he said with bad grace, flipping the fillets over until every side was a reddish brown. Without a word, only a smirk, Celeste slipped a plate onto the counter by his elbow as he lifted the first piece out of the pan and shook the excess oil off. A moment later, three plates were on the table, along with a sliced loaf of crusty bread, a dish of white butter, a bowl of lemon wedges, and a pewter pitcher of water.

“Sorry there isn’t a vegetable or salad,” George said as they sat down. When Celeste made a move for the pitcher, he reached it first, and filled her glass without looking at her. Then Ianto’s, and finally his own. “I’ll do better tomorrow and actually have a full meal ready for you on time.”

“Shall I say Grace?” asked Celeste.

“I don’t believe in God,” George said flatly, head bowed over his plate, cutting into his fish with a crunch. “But you can if you want to.”

“Ianto?”

“I’m not much for religion, Miss Preston.”

“Oh good,” she said brightly, surprising him yet again, unfolding her piously clasped hands and draping a napkin over her lap. “Neither am I. It’s nice to dispense with hollow pleasantries, isn’t it?” As if unaware of the stares she was getting, Celeste blithely squeezed lemon juice over her fillets and buttered her bread.

As she lifted the first forkful to her mouth, George glanced up covertly to gauge her reaction. The subterfuge was unnecessary; hadn’t he just been grumbling to himself about her propensity to speak her mind without hesitation?

“Mmmh, Mr. Godfrey, this is the best fish I’ve ever tasted,” she said with a note of disbelief that, frankly, stung a bit. “Spicy and savory at the same time. Ianto, you weren’t exaggerating.”

“It’s the spices,” George said, eyes on his plate. “You can’t cook anything worthwhile without the right spices.”

Those had been Mother’s words. Speaking them aloud seemed to summon her; George could almost see her standing by the stove stirring a pot; sitting in the corner chair with a basket of potatoes at her feet, peeling with assured strokes of her knife so the brown skins twisted and curled into a single snake-like strip. They’d spent hundreds of happy hours here together, even after she could no longer stand and her hands trembled too badly to hold a paring knife. She’d direct him like a general from her high-backed wheelchair, swaddled in the blankets and cushions she had embroidered on better days, and smile with pride when he plated the results of his culinary efforts.

“Miss Preston is right, sir, this is delicious,” Ianto added. “And very filling, all on its own.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said gruffly, hoping that was the end of the praise. He was a little too imbalanced right now, thanks to Miss Preston’s intrusion in a familiar place that should be secure. George ate quickly and ruthlessly ignored them, turning his thoughts to what he’d do after they went back downstairs. He’d start by thoroughly dusting the study, every piece of furniture and every book on every shelf, he hadn’t done that in a couple months…

His plans got no further than that; in the quiet of the room, he heard a note he hadn’t expected, one he should have noticed before. Silence. Not literal silence — forks and knives scraped and clinked against the china plates, the chairs creaked as someone reached for their water glass, there was a muffled crunch with each bite. To George, it was a far more important kind of absence than a mere lack of noise.

The silence across the table to his right, where Ianto sat, he had become accustomed to. But to his left…

He froze in mid-chew.

Like Ianto, Miss Preston didn’t project.

His eyes cut over to her. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, composed and ladylike. Mind whirling, he tried to recall whether he’d ever received anything from her. But no… Not even during their arguments. Then, all he’d felt had been his own emotions, his own annoyance and exasperation. She set him off, yes, but not into an actual attack.

_How? Why?_ he wondered, a shiver of — couldn’t be excitement, had to be fear — making the hairs at his nape stand at attention. _Because she’s a witch…?_

But no, he picked up plenty from Jenny East before, and Luisa Mariposa. So being a witch alone couldn’t be the reason. Was she something else? An actual siren, or succubus? (Neither would surprise him.)

…Mother had once said that some people projected less than others: those prone to blue moods; those who worked jobs that desensitized them to the world, like doctors and soldiers; those who had no conscience and couldn’t feel shame or guilt. “Some folks,” she’d said, “who’ve been hurt terribly bad, or think only of survival, sort of shut down inside. They put everything into little boxes and lock them tight. Outwardly, they may look and act like everyone else. But inside, it’s like a prison.”

He’d assumed that was the case with Ianto, a poor drifter who clearly had a sad past he didn’t care to speak about.

But Miss Preston? She certainly didn’t behave like someone who’d been deeply hurt, or was prone to crushing sadness. Not with her confidence and bright, beautiful smiles; if all of that was a cover, she was a consummate actress.

“Thank you again for the delicious meal, Mr. Godfrey,” she said, pushing back her chair to stand. “Can I help you with the dishes?”

“No. No, you need to get back to work and unlock the door. It’s already,” he glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall; Madame Gruben had given it to Father not long after she arrived, to cancel out a sizable debt. “12:48, and there may be customers waiting.”

When they’d gone, Ianto carrying the bag of fish bones to put in the trash bin out back before they could stink up the room, he poured the cooled oil into the coffee can he used for spent grease. Scrubbed the dishes and pan. And, ignoring the study, walked straight to Father’s room.

Miss Preston said they’d exchanged letters for two months. He was very interested to see what she had said in them.


	14. Chapter 14

“I’m not just here to gawk, I promise,” Jenny announced when she entered, two cats flanking her like guards while a kitten frolicked around her bootlaces. “I’ve been making deliveries and needed to come in for buttons and a case of Mason jars.”

“Putting up some preserves? Making a new dress?” Celeste asked, clearly expecting otherwise.

“Putting together ghost jars and making luck bows.”

“The luck bows sound self-explanatory, but what’s a ghost jar? Are you going to stick Wint in a bottle next time he plays a prank on someone?”

The hedgewitch snorted. “No. Ghost jars glow in the presence of spirits. Different colors depending on the spook’s intention or power. If you see one burning red, better start running. The jars only last about a year, so every summer I make a fresh batch for everyone.”

“Is there a big need for ghost jars? I thought Wint was the only resident spirit?”

“Hazeldine seems to be in the middle of a couple invisible, spectral roads. The Tupelos think it’s because of Grandfather, that there’s a portal beneath him that leads to another plane. Yvonne says three different leylines meet on the edge of town, near the lightning oak. Plus, wherever you get a lot of magic, be it witchy or Fae or shifter, it tends to attract ghosts and ‘geists like moths to a flame.

“Whatever the reason, a couple of times a year, near the big solstices, we get an influx of spirits. Most are harmless and pass through quickly; you might see some silvery figures walking the streets after moonrise, or hear disembodied voices. But a few of the more volatile ‘geists get pretty destructive — in years past, they’ve smashed bottles, busted wheels, spooked horses into kicking down their stalls, ripped shingles off roofs, snarled dream webs—”

“Jen, you’re making me re-think my decision to stay here,” warned Celeste.

“No, I’m not,” she retorted. “If George Godfrey hasn’t scared you off, malevolent spooks won’t. Anyway, they’ve never actually harmed anybody directly. Levitated a couple of people a foot or two off the ground, sure, but nothing life-threatening.”

“How much for a ghost jar?” Celeste asked dryly. “That’s a helluva sales pitch.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Jenny,” Ianto said, emerging from the storeroom with the broom and dustpan. “Mr. Bae dropped off some snakes today.”

“Ooh, fantastic timing. How many do you have for me?”

“Thirteen.”

“If I can have them now, I’ll drop the powders off tomorrow.” She set her basket on the counter as he pulled out the bag.

“Sure thing.”

While Ianto was busy counting out and coiling up thirteen snakes, Jenny followed Celeste around the shelves to peruse the buttons. “So?” she hissed. “Any sign of horns or fangs yet?”

“Not yet. Do you need a particular kind of button?”

“Pearl works best, but I’ll take wood if they’re unpainted. Varnishes and dyes muddy the spellwork.”

“One of these days, I’d really like you to sit down with me over a drink and explain magic.”

“What I can, sure. …Have you discovered _anything_ yet?”

“You’re getting as nosy as Yvonne.”

That earned her a pinch. “George Godfrey is one of the last true mysteries in this town. _Nobody_ knows his story. He barely speaks more than a grunt when he’s forced to interact with someone. Until you arrived, he hadn’t left the store in _years_.”

“What’s the most popular bet?”

(Her fourth night at the Pax, Celeste had overheard Seung Bae, Boston Drake, Bram Hawk, Rosanna, and three farmers placing bets on the next rainfall over their game of blackjack. Two nights later, she heard Libby tell Yi Ze that the odds were three-to-one on whether she’d last a year in town. Josie announced at breakfast a few days later that, should the next arrival in town be another woman, she’d be ten dollars richer and finally buy that fancy hat with the wax cherries on the band that she’d been coveting.

Celeste had asked, more jokingly than seriously, if _everyone_ in town was a gambler. Lotte arched an eyebrow at her and said, “Betting is Hazeldine’s second most popular pastime, after gossiping.”

“Well, third favorite,” Jenny had corrected her, grinning over her coffee cup. “Given how busy the Tickled Pink is every night.”)

“If you ask Doc, he’s got a phobia of open spaces and big crowds. Jeb Dunne thinks he’s a blood-drinker who’s allergic to sunlight.”

Celeste snorted loudly. “Mr. Dunne sounds like a ghoul.”

Jenny stared at her with wide, guileless eyes. “We’ve had a vamp or two come through town over the years. Mr. Clarion could walk around during the day just fine, but Kristy Plummer burned like a match in sunlight; according to her, there are several kinds of vamps, just like there are several colors of humans.”

“There’s a vampire named _Kristy_?”

“Mmm-hmm. She was born human, became a vamp. Originally from Ohio, if I remember right, and came west with her family in a wagon train. They ran into a bunch of bad luck — just about everybody died from disease — and Kristy only survived because her Maker, Chella, found her and offered her a second chance at life. They stopped in town for a couple months while Kristy was adjusting to the change, before heading further north. Chella had people in Canada, I think.”

“Well, tell Mr. Dunne that George Godfrey is _not_ a vampire. He not only doesn’t burn in daylight, he also eats fried fish, and drinks ice water, not blood. In fact, he’s a very good cook.”

“He cooked for you?”

“And Ianto. Apparently it’s a perk of the job: free gourmet meals.”

“‘Gourmet’? Really?”

“I honestly think he could probably teach Josie a thing or two.”

Jenny blinked. “Somehow, that’s more surprising than hearing he _is_ a shifter.”

“Is that your theory?”

“It would explain a lot of his peculiarities. He’s always struck me as a man who’s zealous about maintaining control. He’s territorial, and aggressive, and practically barks his words. He’s big and muscular but can’t have much room to really exercise. He’s almost phobic about touching people or being near them, and some shifters with poor control over their forms can be set off by physical touch or scent. Put all that together, and the obvious answer is werewolf.”

“You know a lot about shifters.”

“My Aunt Zelda is a coyote shifter.”

“Ah, hence your middle name?”

“She married into the family, but Mama loved her like she was blood. And, well, let’s just say I’m in touch with my animal instincts.” She bent down to scratch one of her cats behind the ears. “Anyway, we’ve never had a werewolf put down roots in Hazeldine, and everyone wonders why, given all of the space we have. With the range and the woods around Grandfather, it’s an ideal territory for one, or even a whole pack. But if George Godfrey was a lone wolf, then it’d make sense — another were wouldn’t want to encroach on his claim.”

“Hmmm,” Celeste hummed. “He definitely has a healthy appetite for meat. And you’re right about the barking, and he absolutely hates when someone steps into his space…” It wasn’t difficult to imagine those big, broad hands covered with fur and tipped with claws, the shaggy brown hair spreading across his face and down his shoulders… “But wait, if George is a shifter, wouldn’t John have been one, too?”

There was an odd, sobering thought. She might have married a werewolf.

“Not necessarily,” said Jenny. “Not if his mother was one, or a grandparent on either side. Shifting magic doesn’t always get passed down directly from parent to child; sometimes it skips a generation or two. Or he could have gotten cursed as a child.”

“Cursed? You and Lotte keep assuring me that Hazeldine is a safe place to live, but it doesn’t sound all that safe if children can get cursed here.”

“It is safe! So long as you don’t start messing with raw magic or try to cast spells yourself, you’ll be fine. But…

“Mrs. Godfrey was sick for a long time. For years. This was before Doc came to town, mind, and there was just Sour Dr. Swearingen. He died before I was born, but I’ve heard he was colder than a fish and harder than a statue. Not that great of a doctor, either; he definitely didn’t help Mrs. Godfrey.

“And, for all of his flaws, John Godfrey loved his wife very much, because at some point he put an advertisement in papers Outside saying that if a doctor could cure her, he’d give them their weight in gold. So, naturally, a bunch of questionable people descended on town. Perhaps one of them dabbled in black magic… And when they couldn’t save Mrs. Godfrey, when they couldn’t get the money they wanted from John Godfrey, maybe they cursed his son out of spite.” The hedgewitch adjusted a jar on the shelf in front of her and shrugged. “It’s been suggested, anyway. Like I said, no one knows anything for _sure_ , and all of that happened long before I was born, when George was just a boy.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s not a vampire, but… I’ll admit your idea has possibility. If I wanted to go about testing it, getting proof, what should I do?”

“The obvious test would be seeing if he can touch silver barehanded. Werewolves are violently allergic to silver. Wolfsbane, too, hence the name, though you’d have to be careful with that — it’s pretty poisonous to humans, too. If you dosed something with it, it’d have to be the tiniest of drops. …I know! You could put some of the flowers in a vase. If he starts sneezing around it, that could be a sign.”

“What if it’s just a sign that he’s sensitive to pollen? It doesn’t sound too definitive to me.”

“Pair it with the silver test. Ooh, and keep an eye on him around the full moon; see if he sweats more than usual, if he looks feverish. Weres can shape-shift any time they want, but they _have_ to on nights of the full moon. If he tries to fight the urge, he’ll look sickly.”

“When’s the next full moon?”

“Eight days.” Of course a witch would know off hand.

The front door opened. There was a momentary eclipse as Bram Hawk ducked his head to avoid the lintel and stepped inside. The deep brown eyes turned immediately toward them and a broad smile brightened his face. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Afternoon, Bram. Can I help you find anything?”

“Thank you, but no, Miss Preston. I was just hoping to have a word with Miss East. Miss Bae said she’d be here.”

“I’ll strangle that girl,” Jenny muttered sotto voce to Celeste. “About what, Mr. Hawk,” she asked in a flat, louder tone.

“Emmett Ingram was just at the Pax announcing that he’s in need of a new barn for his wolpertingers. So long as the weather obliges, he’ll be hosting a barn-raising and square dance next Saturday at his farm. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of allowing me to escort you—”

The front door opened. A slim man in dusty clothes entered, face and arms darkly tanned. He whipped off his Stetson and quickly smoothed down his fair hair with a hand in a yellow canvas glove. The sight of Bram Hawk made him check himself sharply. “Oh, afternoon, Mr. Hawk,” the newcomer said deferentially, tugging on the red kerchief knotted around his neck.

“Mr. Steele,” the newspaper man nodded stoically.

“I was looking for — hello, Miss East,” he said cheerfully, craning his head to see around Bram. “I just got in from the range, and I was having a drink at the Pax when Mr. Ingram came in—”

“He’s hosting a barn-raising. I’ve heard,” Jenny said wryly. “And let me guess, Pete: you want me to go with you.”

“Why, that’s right. It’s like you plumb read my mind—”

The front door opened. “Is Miss East here?”

“Goddess Wept!” Jenny exploded, stomping past Celeste (struggling to repress her laughter), Bram (looking exceedingly frustrated), the cowboy (completely confused), and Mr. Ruiz the notary public (startled by the abrupt outburst and gaping like a frog). Her cats scampered after her as she marched to the center of the street and threw her arms into the air.

“I am _so tired_ of being chased like a prize cow!” she shouted, strident voice echoing off the buildings as if unnaturally amplified. (Perhaps it was.) “I understand — I’m young, well off, and reasonably pretty. I’m one of the few unattached ladies in town, and I own my own house. But I’m tired of all the flowers and gifts and grandstanding and demands on my attention. Tired of half the town persisting in courting me without any encouragement on my part. So I’m going to make this very simple and clear.”

She bent sharply, scooping up the calico at her feet. Unhooked a charm from one of her many earrings, and attached it to the animal’s collar. “The only person I’ll marry is the one who can take this charm from Reba. If you want to win my affections, you’ll have to earn hers first. And if anyone — anyone — does anything to catch her against her will, anything that harms her, I’ll flay you from your feet up and dip you in a salt bath.”

With a sharp huff, she dropped the cat back to the street, smoothed a hand over her plaited hair, and strode off toward her cottage on the edge of town, arms swinging like pendulums at her sides.

“Miss Jenny, your purchases!” Ianto shouted, jogging after her with her basket and a box of empty Mason jars tucked under one arm.

“If I was thirty years younger,” wheezed Captain Eustace in his rocker, “I’d be on my hands’n knees sweet-talkin’ that calicker cat right now. Lawd A’Mighty, I like women with gumption.”


	15. Chapter 15

George stepped back from the bedroom window with a wince, pulling a silver snuffbox from his pocket. It had never served its intended purpose: inside, rather than tobacco, were twists of white paper. He ripped one open over a glass of water, stirred a finger in the mixture until the grey powder had completely dissolved, and drank it down in one long pull.

Miss East had always been polite and demure around him, but the woman was like a powder keg an inch from explosion. At her calmest, she projected like an alarm. That outburst in the street would be ringing in his head for an hour.

How ironic that she made such fine headache powders when she also supplied the need for them.

Sighing, he sat back down in the cane chair and unfolded the next letter. It had taken him two hours to find the blasted things; Father had tucked them into a cigar box in the drawer of his nightstand. He’d always detested Father’s disgusting cigars, and only thought to open the box when a thorough search of the room netted nothing but a few dust bunnies hiding under the wardrobe.

_Dear Mr. Godfrey,_

_I am writing to you in response to your advertisement in_ The Carson City Chronicle _. I am twenty-seven years old, in fine health, and hoping to settle down with a good husband. My parents have both passed, may they Rest in Peace, and I find myself dependent on my Uncle and discontented with my current situation._

_I’m no fine lady, I admit, with perfectly polished manners. I’ve no training as a high society hostess. I cannot dance beyond a reel, I cannot recite beautiful poetry from memory, and I know nothing about organizing gala dinners for visiting royalty._

_But I can wring a chicken’s neck with one hand, dig post holes without complaining, have a fair singing voice, and make a fine cup of tea. I am a hard worker and a good Christian woman who will brook with no immorality or strong drink. Several have told me I have pretty features; my hair is blonde and my eyes are brown. I am of average height and slim in build._

_Should you wish to know more about me, I would be_

The letter cut off at the bottom corner of the paper and the second page seemed to be missing. Father hadn’t kept them in a neat order; this was clearly the first she had sent him, yet George had found it tucked behind two others. And the next one he unfolded seemed to be among the last she’d sent:

_Dear John,_

_You needn’t worry: a small town life strikes me as very appealing after the bustle of_ _Carson City_ _. I’m not that fond of crowds of people, myself, and like having plenty of space to breathe._

_And as to working in a store, I believe I’m hardy enough for that. My Uncle Amos has a dry goods shop, and while my Cousin Thomas was ill with the ‘flu last summer, I pitched in and found I enjoyed the work. I am not the sort of woman who is happy to sit idle._

_After so many years in a desert community, I am looking forward to a place with greenery and regular rain. Even snow will be nice after days where cheese left out on the table melts into a puddle._

_Should everything go according to plan, I will reach Bitter Creek by the 20 th. I am eagerly looking forward to finally seeing you, and pray you will not be disappointed when you see me. _

_With hope and affection,_

_Sally_

George rubbed his thumb across his chin. _Sally, hmm?_ It could be a childhood nickname. It wasn’t unbelievable to assume that.

But it was strange that she would call herself Sally in letters to her would-be-betrothed, then introduce herself as Celeste once she arrived in town. It was a puzzling inconsistency.

Unless these letters weren’t actually from Celeste Preston. There had to be several twenty-seven-year-old blondes with brown eyes and slim figures in a metropolis like Carson City.

And why did she make a point of saying she was a “good Christian woman” when she had no qualms about openly admitting she wasn’t all that religious? If she was so opposed to strong drink, why was she comfortable staying at the Pax and sitting at its bar every night? For someone staunchly set against “immorality,” she was awfully friendly with Madame Gruben and Libby Hawk, two women happy to provide a service the Outside typically deemed a sinful vice. 

These letters didn’t clarify anything about Celeste Preston. They only gave him more questions and unease.

Downstairs, he heard his employees exchanging farewells. Seconds later the door banged closed and there was the tell-tale _click_ of the lock being twisted. Letter still in hand, he rose and stepped quickly down the hall, the staircase, into the store.

“How did Miss Preston do on her first day?” he asked Ianto brusquely.

“Very well, sir. We’re about a quarter of the way through inventory. We’re already finished with the canned food and candy. Here’s a note Miss Preston made for the next order.” The Welshman handed him a pad of paper with a faint smile.

George scanned the list of damages and recommended replacements — it all looked reasonable at a glance — then held the letter close in comparison. The writing was in the same forceful, clear hand.

So she _had_ been the author of the correspondence. That still didn’t explain the different names. Or any of the other contradictions.

“Ianto, I want your honest opinion,” George said. “What do you think of Miss Preston?”

“I like her, sir,” Ianto said, quiet but firm. “She’s a hard worker. Good with the customers.”

“I meant your opinion of her as a person, not as an employee.”

“She’s clever, and considerate. As I said, sir: I like her.”

There _was_ something to be said for that. Ianto was still mostly an enigma to him — neither of them was the sharing type — but over the weeks he felt he’d gotten a solid sense of the man’s character.

Contrary to Father’s dark insinuations, he was scrupulously honest and polite. Kind in a fashion that bordered on self-sacrificial; not long after hiring him, George had gifted him with a new shirt. (It wouldn’t do to have an employee greet customers in clothes that were more patch than whole; that would reflect badly on him.) The next day, he’d seen the tallest of the Reynolds boys wearing it, the one who’d outgrown all of his brothers’ hand-me-downs. When he asked Ianto about it, the man had smiled wanly and simply said, “He needed it more than me, sir.”

And just from the snatches of conversation he’d overheard throughout the day, the faint laughter that drifted up from below, it was clear that Ianto was comfortable around the woman. That he trusted her. For all of his deferential politeness and good manners, there weren’t many in town Ianto truly relaxed around. He was a reserved man.

Yet he laughed around Celeste Preston.

Funny, that: while she stoked a hot fire in his belly, she had a calming effect on Ianto Llewellyn. The woman was a walking contradiction in every way.

“I’ll be making beef stew for dinner,” George said finally, setting the inventory paper back on the counter. “Should be ready in an hour or so, if you wanted to go to the Pax for a drink.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Wish you’d call me George,” he muttered before stomping up the stairs.

***

“…George,” Ianto mouthed inaudibly.

He glanced around the store, running through his mental checklist of closing tasks to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. The till had been counted; he’d take the deposit bag to the bank on his way to the Pax. The counter was polished. He’d straightened the gingham after cutting off five yards for Mrs. Tran; the other bolts of fabric were already tidy.

Usually the last thing he’d do would be to sweep the floors, but he had done that just before Miss Jenny stopped by and there’d only been a handful of customers after her dramatic exit. Still — all it took was one person with muddy feet, so he carefully scanned the pine floorboards for any dirty tracks or clumps of grass.

There. Something glinted near the door.

He crouched down low, eyes narrowed. It was a small silver charm in the shape of a crescent moon. It must be Miss Jenny’s; must have fallen off an earring as she rushed outside.

Ianto pulled his handkerchief from a back pocket, carefully folded it, and used it to pick up the charm. He left it on the counter beside the till; he doubted Miss Jenny would come back to the Pax tonight after her announcement, and tomorrow would be soon enough to return it. Shoving the kerchief back into his pocket, he sucked on his stinging fingertips for a moment before hefting the bank bag over his shoulder and heading out. Mr. Alvarez would be waiting for him.


	16. PART FOUR - DINNER WITH THE GRUBENS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Emmett Ingram (Michael Sheen) – a farmer.

**P A R T F O U R — D I N N E R W I T H T H E G R U B E N S**

“Is that you, Blythe?” Hildy called at the sound of approaching footsteps, straightening from the oven with a hot baking tray. “A moment, _bitte_ , we must wait for the cookies to cool.”

“Just me, Hilds. Wanted to say goodnight before I headed out.”

“Ah, Emmett, thought I heard you,” she beamed at the man standing in the doorway. Setting the tray on a cooling block and untying her apron, she bustled around the table to kiss him. She had to bend slightly to do so; Emmett Ingram was her equal in age but not in height. “Sweet man,” she said fondly, unable to resist ruffling his thick brown curls or patting his cheek. There was a charming dimple there, she knew, hiding behind the well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard. “When will you come visit _me_ next, hmm?”

“When would you like?” the farmer asked cheekily. “Might be able to squeeze you in tomorrow.”

“‘Squeeze me in’,” she scoffed. “You have called on Liberty the last three times. A lady might think you do not like her any more.”

“Brunhilda, you know that isn’t true.” He caught her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’ve just been trying to help Libby out — I heard she was saving up for a new dress. Thought I should give her a bit more business to get her closer to that goal.”

“Sweet, sweet man,” she repeated. “Always so good to us.”

“I try. So, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“ _Ja_ , I’d like that very much. Around eight?”

“It’s a date.” He slipped an arm around her waist in a half-hug and patted her back. “Hope your dinner goes well. Oh, and you be sure to save me a few dances on Saturday, alright?”

“Of course, _liebchen_.”

The madame was still smiling when Libby sauntered into the kitchen a few minutes later, barefoot and clad only in the amethyst silk robe Yu Jie had given her for her last birthday, a serpentine dragon embroidered across the back in gleaming gold thread. She yawned as she sat down at the table and peeled a still-soft cookie from the tray. “Bless Emmett Ingram,” she said fervently, licking melted chocolate from her thumb. “I always feel so wonderfully relaxed after a tumble with him.”

“And hungry, I see,” said Hildy, batting away her hand as she transferred her cookies from the tray to a brightly painted tin.

“Who’s getting cookies?”

“ _Nein_ , they are for tonight’s dessert.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re eating at Liesel’s. Guess I’ll be having dinner at the Pax, hmm?”

“There is ham in the icebox, and that cheese you like so well.”

Libby stretched cat-like. “Nah, I’m too hungry for cold cuts. I’ll see what Josie’s cooking, soon as I feel like getting dressed. Planning on going to the barn-raising Saturday?”

“Are you not?”

“Not sure yet.” Libby propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her cupped palm. “I suspect Bram will do something stupidly masculine. He’s gotten so worked up over Jenny’s challenge. And Morgan said they’d like to stop by in the afternoon. If I do go, it’ll be later, in the evening.”

“Well, you _are_ allowed a night off once in a while,” Hildy admonished. “Do not be working yourself so hard.”

“It’s not work when you enjoy every minute of it,” Libby said philosophically with a smile.

“Hildy?” called a voice from the next room.

“I am in the kitchen, Blythe!” she shouted back. The pans hanging from the overhead rack reverberated with a bell tone.

“Good evening, Libby,” the seamstress said, unperturbed by her barely-dressed state or bed-messed hair. “Is that embroidery Yu Jie’s work?”

“Sure is.”

“I’m so envious of her natural talent with silk. It’s a difficult fabric to stitch.”

“And ta-da!” Hildy announced proudly, pressing the lid of the tin closed and holding it aloft like a trophy. “Aunt Marta’s very famous chocolate and walnut cookies!”

“It’s your turn to play mediator, huh?” Libby asked Blythe in an undertone as Hildy scrubbed the baking tray and her hands in the enormous corner sink.

Once a week, Hildy had dinner with her sister. But because she was like hot oil to Liesel’s ice water, every week Hildy would invite someone to join her. It was a simple, guaranteed way to keep everyone on their best behavior; with a third party present, the dinner would be a peaceful affair and everyone would go home happy and full.

“I quite enjoy these dinners,” Blythe whispered back.

Her earnest expression made Libby bite the tip of her tongue — why was she always so frank and careless with her words? Poor Blythe Carlyle, in her silent and empty apartment. Of course she’d look forward to sharing a meal with someone else, the opportunity to have some of the companionship and conversation she was cheated of when that goddamned horse threw her gentle husband. She’d seen the stark look of longing on the woman’s face when laughing children tussled with their siblings outside her shop, when couples walked along the promenade arm-in-arm.

She might prefer to be alone, but that wasn’t how Blythe was built. Solitude sat heavy on her, for all of her quiet manners and soft smiles.

Impulsively, Libby reached out a hand to the older woman’s arm. “You’re always welcomed here for dinner, too,” she said. “Or lunch. Any time you’d like.”

Blythe blinked. “Thank you, Libby.”

“Am I successful in getting all the flour off my dress?” Hildy asked, turning slowly for their appraisal. She was wearing crimson satin tonight. An enormous bow covered her ample bosom; another crowned her forehead. The whole effect should be ridiculous and far too girlish, and yet Hildy somehow made it look gorgeous.

_How does she do it?_ Libby wondered. Examined with an impartial, critical eye, Hildy Gruben shouldn’t be beautiful by any feminine standard. She was too tall, too broad in the shoulders, with mannish arms and large hands. She only occasionally wore cosmetics, and without cheek rouge or eye kohl or lip dyes to distract from them, the faint scars dappling her face — souvenirs from a childhood bout of measles — were difficult to ignore. She was so pale in coloring her eyebrows were practically invisible. And she was so _loud_ , so quick to express her every thought and feeling, no matter how embarrassing or mortifying such displays were.

_And yet_...

Despite all of these undeniable facts, it was equally undeniable that she _was_ beautiful. Stunning. Any and all other superlatives.

Hildy gave off a _light_ , a brightness of spirit that could only be called angelic. She was so good everyone else became a little better in her presence. As far as Libby was concerned, she embodied everything a woman should be; she could be as kind and comforting as a mother, as strong and fierce as a warrior, as independent and powerful as a goddess, as funny and loyal as the closest friend, as passionate and giving as the greatest lover.

And, more than anything else, she was _happy_. Perhaps that was the true secret to her beauty.

Sometimes, Libby thought that the real reason the Tickled Pink was such a success, the reason why she and Hildy were so accepted and welcomed in Hazeldine, was because the madame’s happiness proved there was nothing evil or sinful about what they did. Her joy was too pure and genuine to be the product of something bad; it proved that sex was just another thing a person could do with their body, not necessarily some grand, significant act that should be regulated, restricted, and secret. And engaging in it for money — well, how was that any different than the farmers toiling in the fields, the cowboys riding long hours on the range, who were paid for _their_ physical labors?

“You look fine, Hilds,” Libby assured her. “And you’d better hurry before you’re late.”

“Have a good night, _liebchen_ ,” Hildy said, kissing her forehead with a resounding _smack!_ as she hurried past. “Get some rest!”

She simply waved them off with a smile. Sat at the table a while longer, debating her options:

  1. Go upstairs, take a bath, get dressed, and go to the Pax for dinner and a drink.
  2. Go upstairs, take a bath, crawl into her own bed, and go to sleep.



Either sounded good at the moment. She was hungry enough to eat a three-course meal, but she could also sleep like the dead for two days.

Emmett always had that affect on her. Talking and joking with him relaxed her, as if he funneled away all of the day’s tensions just by listening to her speak; that their conversations were followed and preceded by extremely satisfying lovemaking was almost redundant.

She heard the clink of his spurs long before he entered the room. “You’ll have to fend for yourself for dinner tonight,” she told Seung. He propped a hip against the doorframe.

“Going to the Pax?” he asked, tugging off his gloves with short, sharp movements.

“Probably. At some point. I need to eat.” She watched him thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood.”

“Aren’t we all?” he said flippantly, shoving the gloves into a pocket and yanking off his hat, which he tossed onto the table with a flick of his wrist. He untied his hair and shoved a hand through it until it hung loose and unkempt around his angular face.

_They’ve had another clash_ , Libby thought. _When will he stop beating himself up over that prude’s bad, unforgiving attitude?_ “Seung,” she started to say.

“I’d rather not talk right now, Libby,” he cut her off, jaw clenched. “Can we just go up to bed? I need the usual. Then I’ll take you to dinner. My treat.”

She got up and padded over to him. “You don’t have to pay for dinner,” she said firmly before kissing him softly. “Just a drink,” she added when they parted for air.

He couldn’t fully repress the laugh, and she smiled as she took his hand and led him up the stairs.


	17. Chapter 17

Liesel opened the door and blinked in surprise at the pair standing on her tiny front porch. “Oh. Good evening, Mrs. Carlyle. I didn’t realize you’d be joining us tonight.”

“If it’s a problem, Miss Gruben…” Blythe began, taken aback by the lukewarm greeting.

“ _Nein,_ of course it is not!” Hildy exclaimed, pushing her into the house before her. “Why would it be a problem — oh! Good evening, Mr. Rutledge!”

Caleb Rutledge rose quickly from the table, knee bumping one of the legs and throwing the flower vase into a dangerous trajectory. A large hand darted out to catch it before it could spill across the green tablecloth. “M-Mrs. Carlyle,” he stuttered, averting his eyes and flushing, which had a peculiar inversion affect on his face: his scars were suddenly paler than the surrounding skin.

“I thought I told you I’d invited Caleb,” Liesel whispered in her sister’s ear.

“I thought that was _next_ week,” Hildy stage-whispered back.

“Hello, Mr. Rutledge,” Blythe said. “It’s good to see you outside of the post office.”

He nodded mutely, then glanced at the Gruben sisters. “If there’s not enough for everyone,” he said, “I can go.”

“No!” all three of the women practically shouted, and the big man flinched.

“No, not at all,” Liesel added quickly in a more soothing tone. “I made plenty for everyone. Please, sit down, both of you. Brunhilda, help me bring out the dishes?”

“How are your father’s furry new assistants settling in?” Blythe asked over the clinking and clattering in the next room.

“Very well.”

“Are they distractingly noisy next door?”

“No.” He hesitated, staring down at his plate. “…No more than Pa’s machines. But, really, I don’t hear much from his laboratory. See, he designed the building. When it was built onto the post office, he put an extra wall between them, with a layer of lead and sound-proofing material. So it’s actually rather… quiet… in the post office,” he trailed off sheepishly.

“I’m surprised I’ve never noticed that,” she said. “So your father’s an architect as well as a scientist?”

“Pa dabbles in a lot of things. Biology, mathematics, chemistry, engineering. When I was a boy, he designed a train, the Rutledge Rotor, which went almost twice as fast as any other locomotive. But electricity’s his real passion.”

“What happened to the Rutledge Rotor?” Blythe asked as Hildy set a tureen of buttered peas on the table. An innovation like that, she should have heard about it by now, even in isolated Hazeldine.

“The prototype derailed. Pa’s investors said it was too dangerous to develop further,” Caleb said quietly. “…That’s part of the reason we came here.”

Liesel settled in her chair and smiled faintly. “Shall I give the Grace?”

An awkward silence fell over the room for several minutes as they ate. Liesel’s square table was small for four, especially when one was as big as Caleb Rutledge. But he’d spent a lifetime making himself smaller to accommodate the world around him, and he moved with purposeful care.

Blythe took a bite of creamed potatoes and found they were a little too bland. She looked up to ask for the salt; before the request could even escape her, Caleb held out the glass shaker with a shy smile. She gave him one in return before sprinkling the seasoning over her plate.

“What is everyone bringing to Emmett’s barn-raising?” Hildy finally asked, sipping her beer. “I think I shall make some peach cobblers. Lise, you should make your sauerkraut.”

“I haven’t decided whether I’ll go or not,” her sister replied, digging the ladle into the peas.

“First Liberty, now you,” the madame tutted. “Go! There will be such food and fun. Music, and dancing! It has been far too long since I heard you sing or saw you dance.”

“Perhaps I don’t feel like singing and dancing,” Liesel said, a warning edge to her chilly voice.

“I love dancing,” said Blythe, hoping to circumvent the approaching argument. “…Though I haven’t done it in years.” Since Tyler had passed, she sat on the edges with the other widows. “Do you dance at all, Mr. Rutledge?”

“I’ve never tried,” Caleb admitted. “No one was ever brave enough to teach me. If I stepped on a lady’s foot, I’d probably break all of her toes.”

“I’d be happy to teach you, if you’d like to learn.”

He blushed again; surprise and embarrassment and pleasure warring for control of his expression. “I hadn’t planned on going Saturday,” he finally said, sheepish.

“Oh, Caleb, please come,” Hildy begged, reaching across the table to squeeze his arm. “We will not make you dance if you care not to. Valentine is bound to have a game of horseshoes. You can play cards with Seung; you know how much he likes to play with you, _ja_? And the barn will be finished much quicker with you to help.”

Hildy knew just how to sweet-talk a man, in or out of the bedroom. She’d refined it to an art. With some, flattering their vanity or pride produced instant results. In the younger Mr. Rutledge’s case, the quickest way to get him to agree to something was to appeal to his sense of duty. He typically avoided large gatherings not because he hated people (like the curmudgeonly George Godfrey), but because too much attention made him uncomfortably self-conscious.

But if he was needed, if he could help someone with his strength or size, like the time Luther Dupree’s wagon crashed and pinned his leg, or when James Campbell needed help yanking an old stump from a field, Caleb had no qualms about leaving his stamp-scented sanctuary.

And, if that didn’t work: “I will make you anything you like,” Hildy persisted, never above bribery. “A big batch of salted caramel corn? Candied yams?”

“Alright, Hildy, I’ll go,” he relented with a smile. “You don’t have to cook anything extra for me. You’re right: I should help out.”

They finished scraping their plates clean. As Liesel’s parlor was far too small, and she only had two armchairs besides, she suggested they take their dessert and coffee outside. Blythe insisted on helping her wash the dishes, so Hildy and Caleb carried the tin of cookies and tray of mugs out to the rough-hewn log benches encircling the fire-pit behind the cottage. It was warm enough that they didn’t bother to light a fire. All the light they needed came from the canopy of constellations overhead and a single lightning jar.

Blythe looked out at the shadowy figures through the open window over the kitchen sink. She could hear Hildy’s strident laugh and Caleb’s answering rumble of a chuckle, lofted high on the breeze. “I’m glad Hildy convinced him to go. It always pains me, to picture him sitting alone at that counter while the rest of us are singing and eating sweets.”

“Yes. Poor Caleb. I wish there was an easy cure for his loneliness.”

Blythe said nothing, but couldn’t help but think, _And what about your loneliness, Liesel Gruben?_

Some were born independent and aloof — like Libby Hawk — but, for all of her prickliness and chilly detachment, Liesel didn’t have that air about her. She purposefully distanced herself from anyone who tried to get close, but it struck Blythe as a defense mechanism rather than a natural preference for solitude.

Had she been badly hurt before? Had the experience made her determined to never trust or open up to someone again?

Blythe could understand if that was the case. When Tyler died, she’d made herself polite and self-sufficient and mechanically calm because, had she not, she would have laid down on the floor and never gotten back up again.

She could barely recall the first twelve years of her widowhood; she’d become a wind-up doll focused only on the task in front of her, who greeted people out of ingrained habit rather than with forethought or genuine emotion. Every conversation was like reciting a script she’d memorized but didn’t truly comprehend. Everything around her retreated into a blurry background as she developed steady routines and never strayed from them.

Only recently had the world begun to sharpen into distinguishable clarity again. A few weeks ago, she’d looked in the mirror and actually saw her face. It was more than a decade older — how had she lost an entire decade? The crow’s-feet around her dark eyes and lines at the corners of her mouth had grown deeper, and there were glints of silver in the once-unrelieved black of her braid. Her olive skin was pale from working indoors every day; with Tyler gone, she’d stopped riding or walking or exploring.

The reflection that had stared back at her — the one staring at her now from Liesel Gruben’s window — belonged to a stranger. Without Tyler, without constant numbing pain, what was she? _Who_ was she? Just the seamstress of Hazeldine? Could she be more than that?

Did she _want_ to be more than that?

She’d read somewhere that people needed other people to tell them who they were. The author meant humans were social creatures; that people crave a sense of community. That too much isolation can lead to more than mere loneliness or sadness — it could lead to a loss of self. Blythe agreed with that; if not for her customers making demands of her, if not for neighbors like Hildy and the sewing circle drawing her out of her apartment every week, she wouldn’t be here now. She’d have disappeared like a ghost.

“Liesel, you should come with us,” she said over the clinking of the glasses she was washing. “Hildy’s right — it’ll be fun.”

“Blythe—”

“I’d really like to see you there.” She refused to be deterred. “Life can be more than teaching. You don’t have to divide all of your time between here and the schoolhouse. You can do more. Be more.”

Liesel stared at Blythe, ignoring the glass she held out to be dried. “…Alright,” she said finally. “Since it means so much to you.”

They washed and dried in silence for several minutes.

“…Are you going to be as firm with Caleb?”

“What?” Blythe glanced up.

“If you’re determined to draw out all of the solitaries of Hazeldine, Caleb deserves the effort more than I.”

Blythe turned back to the last dish, thoughtful.


	18. Chapter 18

“It must be nice,” Caleb said as a breeze ruffled their hair and clothes. “Living out here on the edge of town. Big open sky. Big open space.”

He’d relaxed considerably. Perhaps because there was no delicate china to worry about, and ample room for him to stretch his long legs. Blythe suspected it was because he was more at ease in darkness. They’d all become indistinct outlines in the meager glow of the lightning jar. His scars were invisible. He was just like any other man now.

“I would go botchy,” Hildy said, slurping her milky coffee. “Much too quiet.”

There was a beat of puzzled silence. “…Do you mean ‘batty’?” Caleb asked hesitantly.

“Is that not what I said?”

Caleb was right about how peaceful and open it was, but Hildy had a point, too: Blythe wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep easy with such heavy silence, or the knowledge that, save for Jenny’s cottage to the immediate north, there was nobody close enough to hear any calls for help. Between Liesel’s house and the start of Main Street was the schoolhouse — empty when class was no longer in session — the field the Reynolds family rented, and a store that had been vacant since the chandler Ti Joseph went back to Louisiana to tend to a sick brother. It was a little too remote for comfort, in Blythe’s opinion.

As she turned her head to look in the direction of Jenny’s similarly isolated cottage with its brightly-lit round windows, two green pin-pricks gleamed out of the darkness less than ten feet away.

She sucked in a sharp, startled breath, only to realize it was one of the witch’s many cats stalking through the tall grass. No one knew for sure just how many Jenny had, but there were more than twenty prowling around her home at any given time, in every color and with every type of coat, from sleek to shaggy.

Some witches used animal familiars to help channel and store magic; Nellie Hoobler had an albino corn snake named Nip that she often wore like a crown or a shawl across her shoulders, and Luisa Mariposa’s little black shrike sat on the pommel of her saddle as she rode her circuit with the San Toro cattle. Greer Perdillo never called them familiars, but she had a pair of salamanders living in the forge that blew multicolored sparks over the molten metals when she needed an extra oomph in her spells.

If _all_ of Jenny’s cats were familiars, that would more than explain why she was regarded as the most powerful witch in Hazeldine; but Blythe thought it more likely that only one or two of the felines was, and Jen kept all the others because she simply liked cats.

“Mwrow?” asked this one, stepping delicately around the lightning jar to sit at Liesel’s feet. It was the now infamous calico, Reba, the silver charm still dangling from her brown leather collar. The white tip of her tail curled around her paws as she stared up at the impassive schoolteacher. “Mwrow?”

“There’s nothing to eat here,” Liesel said sternly. “Go home.”

“Mmm-WROW.”

“Pretty puss just wants to say hello,” said Hildy, leaning over to stroke the cat’s ears. Soon she was cooing in German as the animal arched its back into her scratching fingertips.

“Do a lot of Jenny’s cats visit you?” Blythe asked.

“No. Just this one. She’s sitting on the porch almost every morning when I leave for school. Yowls at the windows and tries to slip inside every time I open the door. I’ve told Jenny to keep a better eye on her — I’ve been hearing coyotes at night, and those wretched rattlesnakes seem to be everywhere this year. Don’t worry,” she added quickly, turning in Blythe’s direction. “There’s a circle of repelling salt around the entire house. But you still shouldn’t be kneeling on the ground,” this was directed at Hildy. “You’ll ruin your dress.”

“Ah, dresses can be repaired,” said Hildy, scooping the cat into her arms. “Such a sweet puss-puss. Too bad, _ja_ , that I have no interest in marrying Jenny East?” she added mischievously, pressing a loud kiss to the top of the cat’s head.

“I can’t quite believe she made that challenge,” Caleb said. “What if someone she truly dislikes gets a hold of that charm?”

A witch’s word was one of the most binding things in the world. Nigh unbreakable. It was why so many people were willing to give them secrets, or turn to them for advice. Should a witch go back on a promise, the repercussions would be as dire for her as anyone else connected to the oath.

So when Jenny made her exasperated announcement in the middle of Main Street, she essentially made a legal contract. She would have to abide by it even if she was unhappy with the outcome, or else suffer particularly serious misfortune.

“She’s been not herself for many weeks,” Hildy said, unusually solemn. “Anxious. Frustrated. Short-tempered.”

“Half of the unmarried men in town have been hounding her relentlessly,” said Blythe. “It’s no wonder she’s out of sorts.”

“Ah, but this began before all of that. She has not been to see Liberty for months. I asked if they had a fight, and Liberty only said that Jenny was sorting something out.”

Blythe felt her cheeks flush. She didn’t think herself prudish, but there were moments when she was still taken aback by what Hildy and Libby did for a living. When Hildy said someone was “seeing” either of them, it was her subtlest, politest way of saying they were a customer.

She had suspected Jenny liked the company of men and women equally; the confirmation, while unexpected, was not wholly surprising. Still, the hedgewitch hadn’t broadcasted her inclinations to the whole town the way some — like Seung, Emmett, and Lotte — did. Which explained why all of her would-be suitors were men.

Was that part of her exasperation? Were there perhaps a few women — or a particular woman — she was hoping would show some interest?

Reba squirmed out of Hildy’s arms and gracefully leapt into Liesel’s lap. The woman huffed with annoyance and tried to push the animal away, but the cat was persistent.

“Cats are useful,” Hildy said pointedly, as if picking up a thread from a previous conversation. “A good pet, isn’t that right, Lise?”

“I don’t have any mice. I don’t need a cat.”

“If you ever want a dog, I’m sure Pa could find you one,” said Caleb helpfully.

***

“ _Guten nacht!_ ”

“Good night, Hildy.”

Blythe and Caleb watched the madame disappear between the Tickled Pink’s rosebushes, the cupid doorknocker clanging as she closed the door behind her.

“Can I walk you home, Mrs. Carlyle?”

“Of course, Mr. Rutledge,” she smiled. It was only a few yards, almost within sight, but his chivalry was charming.

It was late enough that half of the street’s lanterns had been extinguished; as they walked, they stepped into and out of intermittent golden pools. Last year’s ghost jars, hanging just below the lanterns, were empty and dark. They were completely alone.

It wasn’t often that she was out this late. Hazeldine was a safer place than most, but she was still a slight woman, and had never been all that comfortable with darkness. Perhaps, if she had Greer’s muscles, or Jenny’s charms, or Luisa’s rifle, she would be braver.

Tonight, though, she was unafraid. It was cool and the thick scent of the first summer wildflowers wafted down the street, carried all the way from the Grandfather by the breeze. Her stomach was full of good German food. Hildy had told bawdy jokes that made her sides ache from laughter.

And with Caleb Rutledge at her side, she knew she was untouchable. The man was like a warm shield. Just as he relaxed around shadows, she relaxed around him.

“Did you mean it?” he asked quietly. “When you offered to teach me how to dance?”

“I did. I’ve never taught someone how to dance before, so I may not be a very good teacher. But I could show you the basic steps.”

“You don’t fear for your toes?”

“Not at all.”

“…Where would we practice?”

Hmm. That was a good question. There wasn’t enough floor space in her apartment or shop, nor at the post office. And they would need music, too, but it would have to be somewhat private — she couldn’t put the pressure of an audience on him.

There was a piano at the Pax; some nights Wint would play a piece on request. Perhaps Lotte would let them use the bar after closing and Wint could accompany them. There’d be plenty of space and privacy that way, and if they didn’t stay too late, it wouldn’t disturb Celeste and the other ladies’ sleep.

“I’ve an idea,” she said. “As soon as I get permission, I’ll let you know.”

They had reached the front door of her shop. “It was a pleasure having dinner with you, Mrs. Carlyle,” Caleb said, eyes on his shoes. “Good night.”

“Mr. Rutledge?”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Would you escort me on Saturday?”

A smile spread slowly over his rough face as his cheeks darkened and scars paled. “It’d be an honor, Mrs. Carlyle. I’ll call on you at noon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. Good night.”


	19. PART FIVE  - SCARS AND CHERRY PIE

**P A R T F I V E — S C A R S A N D C H E R R Y P I E**

Ianto sat down, picked up a fist-sized block of wood, put his carving knife to the edge — and looked up at the unexpected knock.

“Miss Preston,” he said as he unlocked the door. “Did you forget we’re not opening today because of the barn-raising?”

“I remember,” she said, hefting up a large basket with both hands and striding past him. “Just wanted to bring a couple treats over for Mr. Godfrey, since he won’t be attending.”

George heard her now distinctive tread on the stairs and quickly drank the rest of his headache elixir, drawing in a deep breath and steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation.

After the heightened excitement throughout town all week, all of the loud voices babbling downstairs and below his windows, he was glad the day of the blasted party had arrived. Most of town would retreat to Emmett Ingram’s farm, leaving him with some desperately needed peace. He planned to read in blessed silence for a couple hours, then take a sleeping potion and nap the rest of the day. God willing, it would be enough to put him back on an even-keel by tomorrow.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he said when Celeste stepped into the parlor with a red basket. “Whatever ploy you’ve concocted, whatever your reasoning for why I should attend, I’m not going to the blasted—”

“I just brought you a few things so you could share in the festivities without actually being there,” the woman said with a winsome smile, setting the basket on the table and unlatching the lid. “Where do you keep the vases?”

“Vases? What the—”

“There’s a pretty crystal one in the cupboard above the sink,” Ianto said helpfully. As usual, he hadn’t heard the man enter. “I’ll fetch it.”

“There,” Celeste said when she’d taken a bouquet of bright purple flowers from the basket, arranged them in the vase, and set it on the table. “I borrowed these from Jenny’s garden — she told me there’s a huge field of wildflowers next to Mr. Ingram’s farm. This way, you can enjoy a little nature. And this,” she lifted out an impressively large pie-tin and, with a flourish, whipped off the towel covering it, “is Josie’s prize-winning cherry pie. But before you eat any of it, you should have the main course—” out came a high-sided porcelain dish that still steamed “—a turkey and stuffing casserole. Josie said to pop it in the oven for ten or fifteen minutes to warm it up.”

Tucking the food back into the basket, she picked it up and bustled down the hall. “I’ll just set these on the kitchen table for you.” As she passed Ianto, the man sneezed violently, tucking his face into his elbow.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said thickly.

“You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?” she asked.

“Hope not, miss. Just hit me all of a sudden.”

“Because I want you to have a good time today, and a cold would rather spoil things.”

“Miss?” Ianto thoroughly wiped his nose on his handkerchief, pale eyes following her as she left the basket in the kitchen.

“You’re escorting me to the barn-raising,” she said on her return as if it was obvious. “Just because Mr. Godfrey is staying home doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Uh, well, miss…”

“Go, Ianto,” George said. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“Is what I’m wearing good enough?” he asked. “Don’t folks get gussied up for these sorts of things?”

“The main purpose of the whole affair is to put together a barn,” snapped George. “You don’t wear your Sunday best for that.” Noticing Celeste’s disapproving frown, he sighed and softened his tone. “Go pick out a new shirt. You’ve earned one. And _don’t_ give it away this time,” he added fiercely.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Godfrey,” Celeste said, following Ianto out, eyes lingering ever so slightly on George standing next to the wolfsbane flowers.

***

Ianto pulled a charcoal grey shirt off the shelf and unfolded it, tucking the collar under his chin and stretching out the sleeves to make sure they were long enough.

“Oh no, not that one,” Celeste said, shaking her head. “This blue one.”

He looked at the sky-colored fabric dubiously. “It’s a little showy, miss. I’m not one to stand out.”

“Nonsense.” She tugged the grey out of his hands and held up the blue in its place. “This one suits you much better. It goes well with your eyes.” Her smile sent a wave of heat up his neck and he looked away, busying his hands with refolding the grey garment and returning it to the shelf. “Will this be your first barn-raising?”

He nodded.

“They’re great fun. It’s more like a party than work. It starts with a light lunch and a cakewalk. Then everybody chips in to get the barn built; with enough people, sometimes it only takes an hour or two. Then there’s a big dinner, dancing, and games. We probably won’t get back until late. Is there something special I can tell Josie to make for you?”

“Miss?”

“Everybody brings a different dish for dinner,” Celeste explained quickly. “Josie baked a dozen pies yesterday. But when I mentioned you’d be coming, she wanted me to find out if there was something particular you’d like. We’ve a couple hours before everything starts, and I was going to help her with the final preparations.”

“Oh, no, there’s no need to go to any trouble on my account—” he stammered.

“Ianto.” Celeste squeezed his arm. “Doing something nice for you isn’t troubling. Please. I _want_ to. Josie, too.”

His entire face had to be as red as a tomato; it certainly felt hotter than a skillet. “…It’s been a long time since I’ve had rarebit, miss,” he said. “With onions and a little gravy.”

Celeste beamed at him and his heart flopped against his ribs like a landed fish. “Perfect.” With a final squeeze of his arm, she hurried out, the door banging shut behind her.

Still smiling, Ianto went back to the store room that doubled as his quarters. He needed to trim his beard and shine his boots — but first he’d try on his new shirt just to make sure it fit.

His fingers slipped over his buttons; he couldn’t remember the last time he looked forward to something with pure, pleasurable anticipation rather than gut-knotting anxiety. All week, while the rest of the town buzzed about today, he’d automatically assumed that Mr. Ingram’s blanket invitation had been intended for everyone but him. He was apart, never a part, of the world around him. Exclusion was expected; he’d become so used to it that the opposite felt unnatural.

They actually _wanted_ to see him at such a gay affair?

They _wanted_ to cook for him?

Him? He was nobody. He didn’t deserve that sort of kindness or care. He didn’t need it. Or a new shirt—

 _No_ , Ianto thought with an unfamiliar flare of passion. _Stop thinking such thoughts. Today, for just one day, control those old compulsions. Let yourself have fun, God damn it._

He pulled off his old, patched shirt and draped it over the chair. Reached for the new sky-blue one—

The door swung open behind him. “I forgot to say—”

Ianto twisted about. Celeste was staring at him wide-eyed, surprise stamped across her pretty face. Flushing with shame, he swiftly thrust his arms into the shirt’s sleeves and buttoned it in silence. Covering up the source of her shock.

“Who did that to you?”

It wasn’t what he’d expected. The question, nor the cold anger behind it. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“It happened more than twenty years ago, half a world away.”

“None of that makes it any less wrong.”

Ianto finally looked up at her. “You don’t know that. Perhaps I did something to deserve it—”

“No, you didn’t.”

“…You barely know me,” he whispered.

“I may not know the details of your past, Ianto, but I know you,” Celeste said. There was no room for argument. “You’re a good man. I’ve met more bastards than decent men, and you’re unquestionably the latter. Believe me: I know the difference.”

He sat heavily in the chair, hands tight around his knees. “It was three drunken men. In Wales. They thought I’d been stealing from their farms. That I’d attacked a shepherdess in her field.”

“Because it was easier to pin the blame on you, someone passing through, than admit they had a monster living in their village?”

He nodded.

“They tried to make you confess? By torturing you with hot horseshoes?”

Not hot. Silver. And not plural. Just the one. They’d tied him down, pressed it to the very center of his back, and the smoke that curled up from his scorched skin was all the proof they needed that they had the thieving, ravenous wolf that had worried a poor woman and her sheep. They’d stamped him five times more with triumphant jeers. Splashed ale over his sizzling back as he screamed, and went in search of an axe to finish the job. Somehow, through the blazing, blinding pain, he pulled free of the ropes. Crawled into the woods and hid beneath rotten logs for two days, until he was strong enough to shift and run.

He’d never stopped running.

“If there is a God,” Celeste said, shattering the memories, “those monsters will spend eternity being trampled by horses in a pit of fire. But then, if there was a God, you never would have suffered like that.”

Yes, indeed. That had been the moment he lost his faith. The night before, he had left food at one of the men’s windowsill; his wife had given birth again and he knew they’d need more than what they had. And that kindness had been repaid with agony.

The experience had taught him many things: that he needed to keep moving; that he had to keep his head down; that he couldn’t rely upon outside help, and that included God. He was alone, and if he wanted to stay alive, the only person he could depend upon was himself. 

Celeste knelt beside him. “Oh, miss,” he said, flustered, starting to rise. “Don’t. You’ll dirty your dress.”

Her hands closed over his, braced against his knees, and he froze. “I apologize,” she said, unbalancing him further. He was the one who should be apologizing. “For barging in here and seeing something you prefer to keep hidden. I didn’t mean to force any confidences. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you, miss. I know you won’t.”

“Do the scars hurt at all?”

The earnest concern on her face stole his breath. “Sometimes, miss. When it’s very cold or very hot.”

“Not today?”

“No, miss. They’re not bothering me today.”

“I’m glad to hear that. If there’s ever anything I can do—”

“Thank you, miss. That’s most kind of you to offer.”

For a moment longer, they remained a still tableau. Then Celeste pulled her hands away and stood with a slightly brittle smile. “I was right,” she said. “That shirt is very handsome on you.”

“Th-thank you, miss.” He’d never blushed so much in his life.

“What I came back to say was ‘be at the Pax in two hours’. I promised to help Josie lay out everything for lunch, so we’ll need to be among the first to arrive.”

“I’ll be ready, miss.”

“Well, then. I’m off again. I promise I won’t walk in without knocking next time.”

Tamping down the murderous anger smoldering in her chest for the barbarians that had brutalized such a gentle, harmless man, Celeste smoothed her skirt and strode out with even, firm steps.

If it had happened in America — if those bastards were at all within her means to reach — she’d be building a pyre for three within a week.

Upstairs in the parlor, while the front door clicked shut again, George Godfrey was wincing, a hand massaging his throbbing left temple.

Where had that burst of intense rage come from?


	20. PART SIX - AN OLD-FASHIONED BARN-RAISING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Pete Steele (Ben Foster) – a cowboy.  
> * Nellie Hoobler (Amandla Stenberg) – a witch.  
> * Luther Dupree (Jeff Fahey) – a woodsman.  
> * Odessa Pavelich (Margo Martindale) – a brewer.  
> * Snori Sorensen (Bill Fagerbakke) – a pig farmer.  
> * Avonlea Reynolds (Madison Curry) – a mischievous eight-year-old.  
> * Morgan Mayne (Indya Moore) – the town druid.

**P A R T S I X — A N O L D – F A S H I O N E D B A R N – R A I S I N G**

“Nellie, be a sweetheart and help Cotton with the chairs,” Josie called, leaping down from the front of the wagon with a flash of white petticoat. Like her daughter, Mrs. Barton cared little about propriety. “Mr. Alvarez, could you assist Bram and Ianto with the tables? Greer, honey, let Pete take that end, it’s lighter. Doubt he can lift the other side on his own.”

“Ma’s in her element,” Lotte said to Celeste as they hefted hampers of food and stepped quickly aside to make room for those unloading the long trestle tables and stacks of chairs from the Pax’s two wagons. “A born general.”

Emmett Ingram had one of the largest farms bordering the town. His house, built entirely out of dark, reddish wood, the back wall covered with dozens of interlocking windows, sat atop a flattish hill along with a fenced-in livestock paddock, a pair of sheds, and a water pump. Behind the house was a patch of uncut woods and a weathered outhouse. To the left, the ground leveled out into a titanic vegetable garden and smaller hay field separated by a small barn. Before the house stretched a veritable ocean of wildflowers. And to the right was an open space where the new, larger barn would be constructed, and where they were currently setting up for the festivities. (Beyond that space was a cottage that had stood vacant for some time.)

While Bram and Ianto pushed at one end of a table, Rodrigo Alvarez tugged at the other. An edge caught against a nail and stuck. “Hold it,” the banker called. “I must lift this side higher.”

He adjusted his grip and braced one shoulder, only for a second pair of hands to appear in his peripheral and take some of the weight. “Oh, thank you,” he said gratefully, the piece of furniture sliding smoothly out of the wagon bed. He turned — and found Seung Bae smiling next to him.

“I’m fine now,” Rodrigo snapped. “You can let go.”

“A table this long needs four men to balance it,” the sharp-shooter insisted. “Hold onto that corner, I can handle this one.”

“Where should I put these chairs, Mrs. Barton?” Nellie Hoobler shouted, an entire stack levitating at her shoulder. The teenaged witch was wearing a pumpkin orange dress that glowed against her black skin. Her albino snake familiar sat coiled atop her tight cornrows like a scaly crown.

“Over there, dear,” the cook pointed. “Pete, stop! You’re about to run into Cotton!” Darting through the activity like a bantam hen, Josie took a solid grip of Deputy Webster’s arm and tugged him out of the way. “Cottonwood, honey, didn’t you see Pete and Greer backing up with that trunk of tools?”

“The sky’s real pretty today, ain’t it, Mrs. Barton?” came the vague reply. He held a large chair against his chest as if it weighed nothing. “It’s like being inside a big robin’s egg…”

“It sure is,” she agreed. “Where’s Val?”

“He’s not here yet,” the man said, a little less dreamy. “One of his bunnies came to see him. Hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Tell you what,” Josie said, gently peeling his hands from the chair and setting it aside. “You know that big tin washtub I brought for apple bobbing? It’s by the pen. How about you go over there to Emmett — you see Emmett? — and ask for a bucket. Tell him you need to fill that tub with water, and have him show you where the pump is. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Mrs. Barton. I can do that, sure thing.”

“Good boy.”

Celeste and Lotte began setting out the platters of sliced meats and cheeses, the bowls of salad and coleslaw. Rosanna stopped long enough to kiss her wife’s cheek and scoop a pickle from a jar. “Now the first wagon’s empty, James and I are going to go pick up the folks on the far side of town,” she said. “Anything we forgot that I need to grab on the way?”

“No, we’re fine. Wait a moment, I’ll make you some sandwiches. Rosy! You two had better eat something before you go!” Lotte called vainly as she hurried off. “…She’s like a hummingbird,” she told Celeste. “Can’t stand still for more than a minute. Sometimes, I have an overwhelming urge to sit on her.”

Celeste laughed and laid out the baskets of silverware (actually copperware; everyone in Hazeldine seemed to have an aversion to normal steel or silver utensils) next to a stack of plates. “How romantic.”

“Hello, ladies,” Emmett Ingram said, surveying the spread with a hungry eye and his hands clasped behind him. “Anything I can do to help?”

There was something puckish about Mr. Ingram. His full beard couldn’t hide his round apple cheeks, deep dimples, or dazzling and crooked smile. His dark brown hair was so curly it could only be called cherubic. Yet, like most farmers, he had muscular arms and a deep tan, a stocky and substantial build developed by years of physical labor. It was quite a combination: a boyish, jovial face with a strong, capable body.

And he had an openness about him, a warm and inviting air that encouraged confidences. Celeste liked him from the moment he introduced himself; _everyone_ liked him. A month ago, she would have been highly suspicious of his universal appeal. Surely someone who was that friendly, whose praises were sung so loudly by every person in town, had to be hiding something.

Nobody was _that_ lovable.

But even George Godfrey said good things about him. If the most suspicious, wary, distrustful man in the world thought well of him, well, he had to be the real deal.

“Actually, yes,” Lotte said, dipping a spoon into a jar. “Ma finally convinced Mr. San Toro to give her his salsa recipe. Did she get the heat right?”

The moment the spoon touched his tongue, Emmett Ingram’s face beaded with sweat. “Lord!” he coughed, eyes streaming. “Whew!”

“Anybody see where Josie — Lady Luck, Em, are you alright?” Seung Bae demanded, clapping a firm hand to the farmer’s shoulder.

“Fine, fine,” he wheezed, hand flapping.

“Water?” Celeste suggested, holding out a cup.

“No — buttermilk, please.”

Celeste hastily poured him a glass and he just as hastily drained it. “Phew, thank you. Lotte, you tell your mother she’s bang on. It’s perfect. She needs to put a warning label on that jar.”

“Please do, so I know not to touch it,” said Celeste. “Do people actually _enjoy_ eating something that painful?”

“A little burn once in a while can be nice,” Emmett said hoarsely, fanning his damp curls. “Mr. Alvarez will _love_ that. Make sure he tries it. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go dunk my head into the tub Cottonwood’s been filling.”

“Lot, where’s your mother? The troops are uncertain of what to do next,” Seung said dryly.

“Pete! Sweetie, not there! Over here!”

“Never mind. Found her.” He turned on his heel and strode in the direction of Josie’s bellowing.

“Are town gatherings always this chaotic?” Celeste asked.

“This is nothing — just wait until everyone gets here.”

Rachel Campbell, barefoot in a red gingham dress that matched the crooked bow in her tangled hair, walked past elbow-to-elbow with a giggling Nellie. Lotte waved a hand at the pair and signed something. Rachel nodded and signed back.

“What’d you say?”

“Asked her to go help Cotton. Poor man. If it doesn’t rain soon, we’ll have to do something drastic.”

“Lotte, _why_ does Cotton Webster get so lackadaisical when it hasn’t rained? Yesterday, he stood outside the store for a full twenty minutes, just staring up at the sky. He ignored the Captains, ignored Ianto. I started to worry he’d go blind from looking at the sun that long.”

“The sun isn’t the problem. Don’t worry on that count. The problem is the ground. The air. If it’s too dry, Cotton gets, well, parched. Drinking pitchers of water only goes so far for him. When there’s not enough moisture around him, he has a hard time breathing right, or thinking, or moving.”

“What you’re saying is he’s not human.”

“…Not completely. Cotton’s special. Possibly one of a kind. As soon as it rains, you should have a chat with him. He’s a different person when he’s healthy. Greer, sit down for a moment and have a drink.”

“I’d kill for some lemonade,” the blacksmith panted, slumping into a chair. “Pete’s a nice enough man, but he’s got the strength of an earthworm. If he ever had to actually lasso one of his cows…”

“Did I see you and Bram unloading your _anvil_?” Celeste asked incredulously.

“Yep,” Greer said with an emphasis on the ‘p’, cracking her back. “I’ll be making the nails as they’re needed — if they go into the wood right after the fireproofing spell’s hammered in, it’ll seal the magic in at full-strength.”

Townspeople began trickling into the field. Mayor Tupelo arrived in a small carriage, wearing a sapphire blue pinstriped suit and black bowler hat. A cigar clamped between his teeth, he started walking a circuit, loudly and cheerfully glad-handing everyone. In a stark contrast, his undertaker elder brother settled in a seat near the Captains and two frail black women in wheelchairs. Children approached him in twos and threes and walked away with pieces of hard candy or tiny carved animals from one of his many pockets.

A steady stream of people — mostly women, but several men wearing tool belts, as well — left plates and bowls, trays and jars, bottles and pitchers at the buffet tables. Odessa Pavelich, Hazeldine’s well-respected brewer and a doughty middle-aged lady who, like all Russians, had no time for articles, was preceded by three barrels of beer dragged on a sledge by one of Snori Sorensen’s massive, tusked hogs.

“Don’t worry,” the towheaded Scandinavian farmer assured the children staring at the monstrous, snorting, four-hundred-pound pig. “Siggi is tame as a lamb. He’s like a very big dog, only smellier. _Loves_ apples. He eats them, _chomp!_ , in one bite!”

A pale Yvonne Bae, wearing a harried, distracted expression and a straw boater over her white hair, sat atop a fencepost with her notebook propped on one knee, jotting down notes and sketching scenes for Monday’s edition of the _Hawk_.

Celeste watched her with a frown. Today, she should be in her element. She should be darting from cluster to cluster, soaking up every opinion, every bit of news, reveling in the excitement and potentiality for some grand story by night’s end.

But the energetic, voluble woman she had met a month ago had been strangely subdued the last week. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes that suggested sleepless nights. Rather than make her usual rounds through the town every day, she’d sat in front of the _Hawk_ office sipping cup after cup of tea, looking wan and increasingly worried.

But, of course, the woman who was always so interested in everyone else’s business shut up tighter than a clam when anyone asked about hers. When Celeste, Lotte, Josie, Yi Ze, Jenny, even Ianto approached her and solicitously inquired if anything was wrong, she claimed she just had a bad headache.

Yet she hadn’t gone to any of the witches or Dr. Pendergast for pills or potions to relieve her pain…

Speaking of: Dr. Pendergast, wearing his customary brown tweed, gratefully sank into a seat beneath a sun shade Rosanna and James had set up, mopping his brow with a polka dotted handkerchief. At his feet he set a large Gladstone bag. “Just in case,” he said when Celeste glanced at it. “Someone is sure to get too carried away with a saw or hammer.”

Nova, thick hair freshly cut and his shirt snowy white, put together two sandwiches and loaded a pair of plates with a spoonful of every side. Dishes carefully balanced along one arm, he grabbed a small pitcher of lemonade, bobbed his head politely at Celeste, Lotte, and the Doc in turn, and disappeared.

“Everyone’s in such a hurry,” Lotte sighed. “If he’d waited just a moment, I would’ve told him where Rachel was. Now, he’ll waste ten minutes looking for her in this crowd.”

“He’s very fond of her,” Doc said, audibly fond himself. “He spends as much time at their farm as he does with me, these days.”

_I hope Doc and James have told them where babies come from,_ Celeste thought wryly. Then again, Rachel was a farmgirl who’d no doubt seen every phase of life unfold with her animals, and Nova was studying medicine and anatomy. Surely, they were both better informed on the subject than she’d been prior to her first marriage. Jenny did a brisk trade in certain pink pills, and even Yu Jie openly advertised a tea that prevented conception, so at least they had options if they wanted to tumble without consequences.

A woman on a white mare cantered across the untilled field of vibrant wildflowers. The horse’s mane was as black as its rider’s unbound hair, and a smattering of dark spots marked its rump like large freckles. Reaching the edge of the crowd, the rider swung down with one smooth, well-practiced movement and knotted the reins around a fencepost. Tilting up her black Stetson, she came toward the tables with a rolling, undulating walk that drew plenty of admiring glances.

_I thought cattle drivers were all tall and thin_ , Celeste thought, thinking of the other ranch-hands she’d met, Boston Drake and Pete Steele. This woman was barely five feet tall, with an impressively full hourglass figure. The hem of her loose white shirt was tucked into a leather belt cinched around her tiny waist; her denim trousers were so perfectly fitted they had to be tailored.

She pulled off a pair of canvas work gloves, revealing dainty golden-brown hands, and tugged down the black bandana covering her nose and mouth, revealing one of the most beautiful faces Celeste had ever seen. If someone told her this was Scheherazade, Queen Bathsheba, Cleopatra, she’d believe them. Amber eyes rimmed with kohl glinted above a full mouth, sharp nose, and sharper chin. Her skin was flawlessly smooth, the coal black hair framing her face and shoulders thick and lustrous even speckled with the dust of her ride.

Celeste had never been attracted to women before, but for this woman? She could make an exception.

“ _Hola_ ,” the newcomer said, nodding a general greeting as she poured a glass of water and took a long, quenching pull. Beneath her unbuttoned collar was a thick band of silver not unlike Greer’s gold necklace.

“Have you met Miss Preston yet?” Dr. Pendergast asked, straightening in his chair.

“No, I have not,” said the woman. “Please, introduce us.”

“Miss Preston, this is Luisa Mariposa. Luisa, Celeste Preston. She arrived last month.”

“You make all of the lightning jars,” Celeste said, reaching out to shake the proffered hand. Dainty and delicate it may look, but there was solid strength in Miss Mariposa’s grip. She was also older than Celeste had first assumed; closer to fifty than thirty.

“ _Si_ , those are my biggest sellers. Are you here to stay, Miss Preston, or just passing through?”

“To stay. For a while, at least.”

“Ah, sounds like there is a story in that. We will have to talk later, once the work is done. I am sorry we did not meet sooner. I very rarely have time to come into town. I ride for _Señor_ San Toro, and my place is miles from here. I cannot live closer — my weather magic can be wild, like a half-broke horse. But should you need my services, I am sure anyone would be happy to give you directions or a ride.”

There was a flutter of wings and a tiny, perfectly round black bird alighted on the crown of Luisa’s hat. “You had better have clean claws,” she murmured, lifting up a hand; the creature hopped onto her fingers with a raspy chirp. “My familiar, Quince,” she explained to Celeste, transferring the bird to her shoulder after a cautious examination. “She has a bad habit of perching on me with claws still bloody from a kill.”

“That cute little thing is a meat-eater?”

“ _Si_ , she is a shrike. Some call them ‘butcher birds’. She hunts mice, lizards, frogs, and pins them onto thorns or barbed wire fences. She is pretty, but vicious.”

Celeste suspected she had that in common with her mistress. There was a Winchester rifle hanging from the side of her saddle, and a sizable hunting knife strapped to her outer right thigh. Even without the advantage of magic — despite her compact size and queenly beauty — Luisa Mariposa struck her as a woman capable of just about anything.

“ _Mein Gott_ , so many pies!” Hildy exclaimed as she flounced to a stop and blocked the sun that had been burning the back of Celeste’s neck. She held a lacy pink parasol in one hand and a towel-draped tin in the other. Today’s dress made her look like a tiered cake, with layers of lightweight cotton ruffles in alternating shades of red and white. “There is no room for my peach cobbler!"

“I would be happy to eat something to make room for you, Madame Gruben,” the Doc said chivalrously. “I’ve had my eye on that apple strudel…”

“Do not fear, my dear,” Emmett called. He and Seung were carrying his small kitchen table between them. “Thought we might need another flat surface for all the goodies.”

“…we have enough chairs?” Josie was fretting as she and Ianto approached. “I wasn’t expecting _all_ of the Reynolds, or the Trans, or—”

“Ma, take a deep breath. I’ve seen plenty of folks bringing their own, and we’ve more than enough chairs for the elders. The kiddies and the rest of us can sit on the ground on blankets. It’ll be like a giant picnic.”

“Can I fix you a plate, Ianto?” asked Celeste, somewhat facetiously, as she was already doing so.

“Nellie!” Josie called as the witch refilled her glass of cider at the far end of the second table.

“Yes’m?” She lifted a hand to wave away a hovering fly — none of the pests could land on the food thanks to the repelling spells stitched onto the corners of the tablecloth — and offered a sliver of boiled egg to her snake. 

“Could you whip up a few extra chairs, should we need them?”

“Do you have any baling wire I could borrow, Mr. Ingram? I’d put it back just as I found it by the end of the night.”

Like Greer, Nellie was a metal witch. But whereas Greer concentrated her efforts with blacksmithing and heavy materials, Nellie preferred delicate work. She made jewelry, particularly for her fellow witches, that could, just to name a few qualities, channel magic, keep the wearer warm in freezing weather, give one a perfect sense of direction or clear night vision, repel snakes or insects, or act as a homing device. Almost every child in Hazeldine wore bracelets made by her that allowed their parents to have a sense of their location; she’d begun making them after little Claire Yarrow fell, hit her head, and lay out in a baking hot field for a full day before she was discovered.

“There’re two big rolls of it in the green shed,” the farmer said. “You’re more than welcome to them.”

A cluster of screeching, giggling children sprinted past, a frowning Liesel hot on their heels, grey skirt hiked up to the knee as she gave chase. “Avonlea Reynolds, give me that jar of tadpoles. I saw you pouring them down Mariah’s blouse.”

“I wanted her to come so she could have fun for once,” Hildy sighed, spinning her parasol over her head. “Instead, she will be Miss Schoolteacher, as always.”

Rosanna and James returned with the last wagon-load of people. And, to Josie’s relief, another batch of chairs and two more long tables. People clustered round to help unload — then stepped back as Caleb Rutledge hefted one of the tables over his head all on his own, the muscles of his arms bulging against his long striped sleeves. “Over here, Mrs. Barton?” he called, tilting his head.

“That’ll be just perfect, Caleb, thank you. And James,” she said after tugging his cuff to ensure he saw her speak. “Thank you. I was getting worried we wouldn’t have enough for everybody.”

Smiling, he patted her hand with a nod.

There was a swell in the conversation, and Mayor Tupelo stepped up onto one of the trunks of tools, clanging a spoon against his glass. “May I please have everyone’s attention? Quiet, for just a moment, if you will. Before we begin lunch, I’d just like to say it’s a delight seeing so many of you here today. When Emmett said he needed a new barn, I knew this town would rise to the occasion. In Hazeldine, we don’t hesitate to offer help. We’re not greedy with our time or money. We’re all happy to pitch in, because we truly care about our neighbors. It’s what makes this town so great, and makes me so proud to represent you all.”

“Is there an election coming up?” Celeste whispered in Lotte’s ear.

“Will can be a pompous popinjay, but he’s a good man. He _loves_ being mayor. All the speeches and grandstanding and attention. If he hadn’t been elected, he’d be an actor.”

“I thought politicians _were_ actors.”

“…thank everyone who baked and cooked these delicious dishes we’re about to enjoy, and for the donations of food and equipment. Most of the wood comes courtesy of Luther Dupree and my good brother, Hawley — Hawley, where are you, stand up for a moment — and Miss Perdillo is providing the nails. I’d also like to call attention to the Bartons, for lending the use of their tables and organizing the set-up, and Hazeldine’s newest addition, Miss Celeste Preston, for already pitching in for the good of the community. Let’s have some applause for them to show our appreciation.

“Now, it’s time to put away some of this food so we have room to work! If everyone could—” The mayor faltered, glancing down into the crowd. “Oh, yes, by all means, Miss East.”

The man reached down and pulled Jenny — unusually stone-faced in a violet dress with her yellow hair braided in a Scandinavian-style coronet — up to stand beside him.

“All I want to say is my cat’s not here, so I don’t want anyone wasting any time looking for her tonight,” the witch announced as if lecturing badly-behaved children. “Tonight’s about helping Emmett, and I want everyone focused on building his barn. Understood?”

There was a murmur of embarrassed agreement. Nodding sharply, she hopped down and disappeared into the crowd as, wave-like, it undulated toward the buffet.


	21. Chapter 21

Her back and arms aching from serving food to several dozen people, Celeste took her time at the pump refilling the water pitchers.

The people of Hazeldine clearly took their community meals seriously; that “light” lunch would have been a Christmas feast to her fellow factory workers in New York. A third of the dishes and plates were completely empty. Everyone had settled into chairs — including several gleaming creations almost too beautiful to sit on, decorated in floral curlicues, that Nellie Hoobler had weaved from common baling wire with a few elegant sweeps of her glowing hands — or sprawled across blankets to chat while the food settled. Within the hour, after Josie’s pie-variation of a traditional cake walk and the raffling of a gorgeous velvet quilt donated by Blythe Carlyle, the barn would start taking shape.

But right now, Celeste wanted to pour cold water over her neck and thoroughly wash her hands.

She straightened, shaking drops from her fingers, and only just managed to keep herself from jumping when she realized Cotton Webster was standing at her shoulder. “Deputy Webster,” she said breathlessly. “Please don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, miss,” he said with a hangdog expression. “Miss, I’ve been filling that tub for Mrs. Barton.”

She glanced down at the bucket dangling from one hand. He was _still_ doing that? Surely the washtub was overflowing by now. “Yes, Deputy?”

“And there’s things in it.”

“You’d better show me.”

He led her past the sheds. The tin tub — filled to the brim, as she expected, the ground around it muddy from overflow — sat near a curious paddock that had a fine wire mesh stretched over it like a canopy. A chicken coop dominated one end, and there was a dirt run circling the fenced-in perimeter.

“Those things are tadpoles, Mr. Webster,” Celeste said, hands on her hips. Avonlea Reynolds had clearly slipped out of Liesel Gruben’s grasp and dumped her ill-gotten booty. “We can’t let the children bob for apples in this. I’ll tell Josie, let her decide what to do. In the meantime, Deputy, you should go have some lunch. Mr. Collins must be here by now—”

“Hello there!” called the man himself as he strolled up, hands in his pockets. “My ears were burning. Can I be of service?”

“Deputy Webster hasn’t had anything to eat yet,” Celeste explained.

“Well, that’s no good. Aren’t you hungry, Web?”

“Hungry? Yeah. I guess I am.”

“C’mon then, bud, let’s fix you up a plate.”

A flurry of movement within the paddock caught their attention. A streak of brown and white fur darted along the fence with a fluting cry. Celeste stared as two creatures chased each other through the grass before rearing up onto long back feet to box and claw one another with their front paws.

They were hares; that squat building in the paddock was a hutch, not a chicken coop. But they weren’t quite like any hares Celeste had ever seen. They had…

“Antlers?” Celeste nearly pressed her face against the wire fencing. One of the creatures lowered its head and charged the other like a very small stag, and its target shot up from the ground in a prodigious vertical leap, rising at least six feet and coming just shy of the mesh canopy. The moment it landed, the first sprang onto it and they rolled and wrestled until their antlers clacked and tufts of fur flew in the air around them.

“Hey now,” Deputy Collins shouted. He let off a piercing whistle and the animals broke apart to stare at him, white chests heaving and long ears swiveling. “Enough of that. Emmett doesn’t need to be bandaging any wounds tonight. Calm down.”

It was impossible for a hare to look sheepish, but the pair came close. Crouching low, they crept away to opposite ends of the paddock.

“Jackalopes, miss,” the deputy explained. “Hares with horns. They’re aggressive little beasts. Quick as lightning.”

“That’s what Mr. Ingram needs a new barn for? His jackalopes?”

“No, for his wolpertingers. Different breed entirely. Wolpertingers are rabbits with wings rather than hares with horns. They’re more docile and far less hardy; it’s taken Emmett years to build up his flock. And the latest generation laid pretty large clutches. He’s hoping a bigger barn will mean more of the eggs will hatch and more of the kits will survive — wolpers get dangerously stressed when they don’t have enough space to nest and fly properly.”

“What does he do with them?” Celeste asked as she collected the full pitchers and they walked back to the gathering, Valentine holding Cotton’s hand in a firm but gentle grip.

“Some of the jackalopes end up in dinner pots, or as ingredients in witchcraft. You know that old myth about lucky rabbit feet? Turns out, it’s gotta be a jackalope foot to really work. And their antlers make for really potent wands. As for the wolpertingers, they pay for themselves ten fold. They lay gold eggs.”

“Mr. Ingram must be the richest man in town!”

Deputy Collins chuckled. “Well, a wolpertinger will only lay one, maybe two, gold eggs in its entire life. And since they’re prone to all sorts of sicknesses, they tend to be short-lived little creatures. But their feathers are pretty valuable, too, and they molt three times a year. Em’s mattress is stuffed with wolpertinger down, and he swears it makes for the best night’s sleep you could imagine.”

“Deputy Collins,” Celeste said slowly, “can you talk to the jackalopes and wolpertingers like you do normal hares?”

“In a fashion,” the sandy-haired man said, brushing his shaggy bangs out of his eyes. “Not as fluently. Their magic muddles things a bit.”

“…How can you talk to hares at all?”

For a moment, the deputy chewed his bottom lip indecisively.

“Aw, tell her, Val,” said Cotton, surprising them both with his coherency. “I like Miss Preston. It ain’t gonna bother her.”

“Hope you know Web doesn’t give his seal of approval to just anybody,” Valentine said, grinning. “I’m a Phooka, miss.”

“I’m sorry — I don’t know what that means.”

“Means I’m one of the Fae Folk. We’re shape shifters who tend to have knacks for luck, good or bad. Some Phookas favor horse forms, others hare or dog, and have some power over those animals.

“My Mam and Pa came to America to escape nasty villagers who blamed them for their poor crops; they weren’t responsible, but they couldn’t explain that to torch-wielding farmers who had been taught to fear Phookas for generations.”

Deputy Collins sighed. “Then they got to New York and found that, even though they hid their Fae nature, plenty of Americans hated them for being Irish. Lucky for them, the wagon train they joined passed through here, and they were able to put down some roots in a place where folks didn’t care _what_ they were. Here, Web.” He guided the taller man to an empty chair next to a buffet table. “Sit tight. I’ll get your plate.”

“By ‘knack’,” asked Celeste, setting down the pitchers and trailing after him as he moved from dish to dish, scooping tiny spoonfuls of various vegetables. “Do you mean magic?”

“Yep. See, the Fae look at magic as a talent. A knack. Some folks have a knack for music, others for story-telling or growing things or planning battles. One person may be _really_ talented at something, while another may be only fair to middling at the same thing. And knacks, like brown eyes or crooked teeth, tend to get passed down through the generations. So if your mam had a certain flavor of knack, chances are good you’ll have it, too. Neither of my parents had strong knacks, so neither do I.”

“I’m sorry.”

Deputy Collins snorted. “Don’t be, miss. If I lived with a bunch of other Fae, where power means a lot more, it might be cause for concern. But here in Hazeldine, it’s not a big issue. And Mam was real good at making cheese, and Pa was real good at growing corn; they didn’t need magic to feel successful. And neither do I.” He knelt on the ground next to Cotton and slid the plate onto the other deputy’s lap. “That’s Mrs. Stewart’s succotash, Web,” he said, pushing a copper fork into his limp hand.

His hazy, unblinking stare brightened. “Oh, I love Mrs. Stewart’s succotash.” The fork’s tines scraped against the china as he dug in.

“Thank you for explaining, Mr. Collins. I don’t mean to pry so much, but…”

“All this magic isn’t what you’re used to.”

“No, not at all. I’m only just starting to expect a ghostly bartender when I go to dinner. It’ll take me a while longer before I see witches and shifters and Fae Folk as normal neighbors. And it’s nice to get straight answers to my questions for a change,” she added. “Everyone’s always so quick to change the subject when I get confused.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Preston. Now that you’ve been here a month and haven’t run for the hills screaming about demons and monsters, folks are bound to start opening up more. And you’re welcome to call me Val.”

“Only if you return the favor and call me Celeste.” She held out her hand.

He shook it with a sloppy grin. “It’s a deal, Celeste.”

***

Nova looked up at the unexpected shoulder tap with a frown. The mayor was standing on a box again to be seen over everyone, next to the tall frame displaying Mrs. Carlyle’s wine red quilt. He was holding up a scrap of paper and saying something while everyone applauded.

It had been a year since he’d last heard a sound. It was still eerie to watch mouths move, hands clap together, and… nothing. Not even a ringing or buzzing in his ears. Just silence. As if he’d been pressed between planes of glass like one of his father’s butterflies. The strangeness of it was often frightening. Sometimes he wanted to scream until his voice disappeared, too.

The man sitting closest to them tapped his shoulder again. When he turned to him — it was Mr. Steele, the blond cowboy with all the freckles — he saw he was pointing up at the mayor, then at him, and mouthing something he couldn’t follow. He’d never be as good at lip-reading as Rachel. He squinted at Mr. Steele and shook his head to show his confusion.

But then Rachel squeezed his hand, and when he turned back to her she signed, _He called your name. You won the raffle._

Raffle? He hadn’t entered the raffle. But the mayor was waving eagerly at him, beckoning him forward, so Nova climbed to his feet and stepped around clusters of chairs and blankets, face burning and chest tight while everyone stared at him.

He’d almost reached the mayor when James appeared. An instant flood of relief washed away the nausea that had filled his throat. As the mayor talked, James kept his eyes on the man’s lips and moved his hands into words Nova could understand.

_Mrs. Carlyle has outdone herself with this beautiful velvet quilt and I’m sure Nova Pendergast will treasure it as soon as the temperature drops this fall. Here you are, son._

The mayor pulled the quilt down, and he and James folded it into a manageable bundle between them. Nova accepted it with a strained smile and a croaky, “Thank you, very much,” that he at least felt, though very few heard.

_It’s so pretty!_ Rachel signed as he dropped it on their picnic blanket and settled back into a cross-legged seat beside her. She ran her hands into the grain of the velvet, traced some of the geometric pattern made by the gold stitching, and rubbed the black flannel backing between her thumb and forefinger.

The sweetness of her delight made him smile like nothing else could. Rachel had such an open, expressive face; she said more with a look than an orator could say in a speech. And she could find excitement, joy, in even the mundane. It was just a quilt — and yet touching it, looking at it, gave her genuine pleasure. It was as if the Universe had done its best to balance life for her: in exchange for her hearing, it had given her a lighter spirit. A larger heart. A bubbly optimism that couldn’t be popped no matter how thorny the world was.

In other words, she was his complete opposite in every way.

_I’d like you to have it_.

A concerned furrow appeared between her thick eyebrows. _No, Nova, you should keep it._

_I_ want _you to have it._ He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. It had become their private way of saying _I’m certain_.

On his narrow, makeshift stage, Mayor Tupelo motioned for attention again. “We’re about to begin building, folks, and I just want to remind everyone _not_ participating in the work to keep back behind the line of tables. Pay attention to what you’re doing and what the person next to you is doing. The last thing we want is for someone to get hurt. If there’s an injury, call for help _immediately_ — we’ve got Dr. Pendergast, Miss East, and Miss Yu Jie all on hand, ready to tend to even the smallest boo-boo.”

That sparked a ripple of amused tittering.

“Hawley will be acting as foreman, so direct any questions about the design or work to him. Without further ado, let’s raise a barn!”


	22. Chapter 22

Rodrigo Alvarez knew Mr. Ingram had sprinkled repelling salt —ash and purified water mixed with herbs and minerals, only one of which was actual salt — around the entire field the night before to keep the rattlesnakes at bay. That one of the witches had sewn runes onto the tablecloths to prevent insects from spoiling the food. And that many of those around him were wearing luck bows and other charms to safeguard against mishaps.

With all of that magical protection, how was he _still_ being plagued by such a dangerous pest?

“You’re hitting the nails at an angle,” pointed out Seung Bae. Because the blasted man couldn’t just focus on his own work.

“So?” he said as frostily as he could, willing him away.

“So the heads of the nails aren’t going to lay flush against the wood, which leaves gaps for rust, or moisture. And with the nails going in cock-eyed directions through the boards, they might come loose or fall off, probably sooner rather than later.”

“I had no idea you were such an expert craftsman, Mr. Bae,” Rodrigo glared. “Between getting drunk at card tables and rolling around in other people’s beds, how _did_ you find the time to master carpentry?”

Seung’s jaw visibly clenched. He set down his hammer as if afraid of what he’d do with it if he didn’t. “Why are you even here?” he demanded. “You certainly don’t enjoy getting your hands dirty, especially when there’s nothing in it for you.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean? Are you implying that I cannot do something out of pure kindness? That I’m selfish?”

“I’m _saying_ you’re selfish. _And_ greedy. There’s no way for you to turn a profit here. And that’s all you care about, isn’t it? Adding to your wealth.”

“Says the gambler who’s happy to bilk others of their legitimate, _hard-earned_ gold.”

“I absolutely earn my gold. Doing legitimate, dangerous work that keeps everyone else safe. I’d like to see you hunting rattlers at dawn every day. But no, that’s too much like _actual_ work. That sort of job is beneath you. It’s not clean and quiet enough to pass muster. It doesn’t call for fancy suits. You can’t do it while sitting at an antique desk.”

How _dare_ he look down on him for his hard-won civility. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what his sophistication had cost him. The struggle he endured maintaining it every day. The danger losing it posed to not just him, but the entire community. “Don’t sneer at me as if respectability is a weakness!” he shouted, steam curling from his nostrils.

“ _Ahem_.”

The pair re-directed their burning glares at the man looming over them with crossed arms. “When will you two boys learn to play nice?” Bram tutted. “Seung, go work down there with James and Luisa.”

“He—”

“I don’t give a damn who started it. I’m finishing it. Go over there, now, before I drag you by your collar.”

Seung threw down a board and stalked away. Hideo Kaneshiro and Snori Sorensen watched him pass by them with carefully blank expressions. Then exchanged meaningful looks.

“Will they never calm down?” Hideo whispered as he steadied the wood and Snori resumed his sawing. The squat Japanese man had his ever-present round cap fastened immovably in place with a ribbon knotted beneath his double chin, his black braid tucked under his shirt collar to keep it out of the way.

“Sometimes I wonder…” the Scandinavian murmured, shaking his head.

Without warning, the saw struck a hidden knot and slipped from his hand, sending him stumbling and Hideo flinching back. “ _Helvete_! What did — damn, look at this. My luck bow’s cracked. It was fine this morning.”

“Hope that’s the only one that breaks,” said Hideo. “Hate to think something big and bad is brewing…”

***

“Did you come because you wanted to, or to shut Hildy up?”

Liesel’s eyes didn’t move from the half-eaten slice of pie resting in her lap as Jenny sat in the empty chair next to her. The witch’s violet skirt brushed against her leg. She could feel the heat of her radiating along her left side.

“Are you never going to speak to me again?”

The schoolteacher stabbed a fat cherry with her fork. Watched the juice ooze onto the white plate like sweet blood.

“I’ve tried to do what you asked. Stay away. Leave you alone. But we both know it isn’t working. I’ve seen how much you’re hurting. As much as I’m hurting. Pretending our emotions don’t exist won’t make them disappear. Why do this to yourself, when you know how I feel? When you know how happy we are when we’re together?”

“How could you make that challenge?” Liesel whispered. She shut her eyes tight against stinging tears.

“I had to do something. I couldn’t stand it any longer. …All you have to do is take the charm.”

“I can’t,” Liesel insisted. “I’ve already explained why I can’t be with you. It’s too dangerous.”

“No, I can’t accept that. Every day I work with magic — power that could easily kill me if I’m not careful.”

“It’s not the same!” She bit her tongue, afraid of drawing an audience, of embarrassing herself with a public outburst. “What I can do is entirely different from the magic you can control. You wouldn’t be able to withstand it, if I…”

“I refuse to believe you could ever hurt me like that, Liesel. Not someone you—”

“I killed my parents.” The harsh confession left her like a poisoned arrow. “You don’t think I loved them?”

She felt the crack inside grow wider. Felt the surge of power course along her arm. The fork in her hand was suddenly sparkling with a thick layer of ice, the tines lengthening into sharp needles. With a violent jerk, she threw it aside to slowly melt against the grass.

“I won’t risk your life for some fleeting happiness,” Liesel said as she stood, turned her back on her, and marched away.

She hadn’t looked at her once, too afraid that her resolve would shatter if she did.


	23. Chapter 23

“Coffee break!” Lotte called. She and Celeste set their trays on a sawhorse. “Well, not actually coffee. But ‘lemonade and punch break’ doesn’t have the same ring to it. Looks like things are coming together pretty quick, Pop.”

Hawley brushed sawdust from his sleeves and nodded, gazing up at the frame of the barn with stoic satisfaction. “We should be done in another hour, hour and a half.”

The walls were being built flat along the ground, and each would then be hauled up into place with ropes and pulleys. While two teams kept tension on the lines, ladders would be propped up in a line and a third set of workers would climb up to hammer in the huge nails to secure the walls to the frame. Once all four were in place, cross-beams would be fitted around each corner to make sure the structure was solid enough to withstand the summer’s thunderstorms and winter’s blizzards.

The most difficult portion of the day would be when everyone was high up on the ladders building the sloped roof, when every board would have to be pulled up, slotted into place, and then covered with tar and shingles. The final steps would be to lay down the floor of the hay loft and build the interior stalls — or nesting boxes, in this case.

“Darlin’,” said Rosanna, straightening with a wince. “Could you—”

“Right or left?” Lotte asked, stepping around her.

“Both. Ahh, that’s it, right there,” the sheriff sighed as her wife kneaded her shoulders, honing in on the knotted muscles with firm thumbs.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Celeste said, handing Ianto a glass.

“It’s nice to work on a big project like this. To make something that will last.” In fact, it was much more than nice. Helping so many people in so many ways, from carrying and lifting things to holding boards steady while someone hammered or sawed; knowing his efforts would benefit a good man like Mr. Ingram; doing the solid carpentry work he’d missed for so long — all of it was producing a buoyant lightness he’d never felt before. After today, the old compulsions might subside for a week, perhaps more, and he could truly relax for a spell.

And seeing Miss Preston smile so much — that was more than nice, too.

“You know, I expected to see a lot more magic going into this. I thought people would be flying rather than using ladders, or that the witches would cast some spells to make the boards nail themselves together.”

“Magic has rules and limits, Miss Preston,” said Rosanna. “A witch can only use so much of it at a time without making herself ill, or losing control of it. And wild magic can be very, very dangerous.”

“When it comes to some things, you just can’t replace good old-fashioned sweat equity and hard work,” agreed Lotte, moving her massage to the back of Rosanna’s neck. In the distance, someone shouted her name and she sighed, reluctantly removing her hands. “Honey, don’t push yourself too hard today, hmm? You’ve been going nonstop all week.” They kissed and she strode off to see why she was needed.

“This barn will stand a lot longer without any magical influence,” said Hawley. “When some spells lose their power, they can backfire in the opposite direction.”

“But what about Greer’s nails?”

She looked over at the witch, taking a break next to her anvil in one of Nellie’s wire chairs. The woman felt her gaze and looked up. “Did you say something, Miss Preston?”

“Everyone’s saying projects like these are better without magic, but you’ve been making nails by the dozens with those lizards.”

It had been mesmerizing to watch the process from afar. Greer would set a smelting cup on the anvil between the orange salamanders, which, dragon-like, spat green and blue flames to heat the cup until the metal inside had melted into a shimmering liquid. The blacksmith would then sprinkle a powder into the liquid metal and pour it into a long mold; over this, the salamanders breathed white sparks that audibly crackled and hissed. Minutes later, Greer would pull apart the mold and tap out cooled nails. If there were any duds, they’d be tossed back into the smelting cup to be melted down for the next batch.

“It’s not heavy magic,” Greer said and reached over to scratch the pink, pebbled bellies of the salamanders, now lying on their backs atop the anvil with half-closed eyes as they soaked up the hot sun. “Hammer and Tongs just help me put a little oomph into the nails that makes them ward off fire. So if we ever have another wildfire, or somebody drops a lantern, the barn won’t immediately go up in flames.”

“Which is a mighty good thing,” said Bram Hawk, strolling up shirtless and nonchalant about it, sweat gleaming on his huge, well-defined chest. “May I have another cup of lemonade, Miss Preston?”

Hand clenched around the pitcher’s handle, Celeste could only nod silently as she poured and looked anywhere but at the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his belt.

_Jesus Christ_ , she swore and swallowed convulsively. She’d never had trouble curbing her lust before — alright, yes, that was because she’d never truly lusted for a man before — but Mr. Hawk was pushing her to her absolute limits. If he hadn’t been so infatuated with Jenny, and if Greer wasn’t so obviously infatuated with him, she’d have already thrown herself at the printer.

“This side’s ready to go, Hawls,” called Luther Dupree with a triumphant whoop.

“Competitive cuss,” muttered Bram into his cup.

“Pardon?”

“There was a bet over which team would finish their wall first,” clarified Rosanna. “Naturally.”

“Dupree had an unfair advantage though,” Bram insisted, tilting his chin at the mountainous Caleb Rutledge. “When we placed the bets on Thursday, nobody knew Rutledge would be coming.”

“Bram Hawk, you’re six foot six with two hundred pounds of solid muscle on your frame,” reproached Rosanna. “Don’t be a sore loser just because you’re not the biggest frog in the pond for once.”

“I’m not a frog,” he retorted with a lofty expression. “I’m a paragon of manhood.”

“You’re becoming a pain in my ass. Get over there and help with the ropes.”

“Your mother-in-law sounds a lot sweeter when she’s bossing people around,” Celeste observed. “It’s all ‘honey’ this, and ‘dearie’ that, with a smile daring anyone to disobey.”

“Ma likes to say you can catch more pixies with sugar than vinegar. I like to say I don’t give a damn. And speak of the devil…”

“So I’m a devil now, hmm?” said Josie, large pitcher in hand.

“Just in the ‘figure of speech’ sense, Ma, I promise.”

“Is everybody drinking plenty of my lemonade? I don’t want to see anyone getting sunstroke.” 

“I’m keeping an eye on everyone, don’t worry,” Rosanna assured her. “Pardon me, but I’d better go lend a hand.”

“Maybe I should go back to town for more lemons and make a fresh batch,” Josie said more to herself than Celeste as they watched the giant wall slowly rise from the field, tugged up by two long lines of people hauling away at thick ropes. “I could put an extra dollop of energy into the sugar.”

“I think we’ll be fine,” Celeste assured her. “All of those ‘pepper up’ pies you made should do the trick.”

She’d “helped” the cook put them together the night before, meaning she cut and crimpled the pie crusts and maintained a steady thread of conversation while Josie measured all of the ingredients, stirred a dozen bubbling pots, mixed up the various fruit fillings, and kept a close eye on the three baking ovens to ensure each pastry came out golden brown all over. A single slice, the kitchen witch explained, would have enough kick to give even a man as large as Bram Hawk a steady second wind. They’d be the perfect finishing touch for dinner, to rejuvenate everyone for a rousing hour or two of dancing and “festivizing”.

The last pie she baked had been at Celeste’s particular request, as a special treat for George Godfrey. “He’s such a hard, suspicious man,” Celeste had told Josie with a wistful frown. “I wish he’d open up a little and start trusting me. Could you whip up something to that end? Something to soften his edges a bit?”

The resulting “Confidence Cherry Pie” was “guaranteed to warm the man’s chilly disposition”. By now, Celeste had the utmost confidence in Josie’s cooking, and was looking forward to seeing the pie’s effect when she got back to town and popped in to say goodnight. Had he eaten any of it yet? Would he save it for dinner, or tomorrow?

…But what if George hated cherries? What if he just threw the pie away? She’d thought it a brilliant move in their private war, a clever tactic to uncover more of his true character and draw him closer to her goal.

If it failed, what should her next step be? How could she convince—

“Avonlea Reynolds, come back here and apologize to Matthew!”

Train of thought derailed, Celeste’s eyes followed the path of Hazeldine’s smallest troublemaker as she darted around chairs, ducked under the tables, and sprinted across the open field, brown skirt hiked high, slim black legs and shoeless feet pumping furiously.

At eight years old, cheeky Miss Reynolds was as talkative and daring as a squirrel, and almost as fast. Celeste had seen her sitting on a stool at the Pax, heels swinging a foot above the floor while she ate peanuts and nattered at Wint, many times; no doubt the ghostly prankster was giving her tips to expand her ever-growing repertoire of tricks.

Most of town seemed to take turns chasing her: it was Liesel Gruben’s turn today. As she watched the pair tear across the grassy field, Liesel’s much longer legs steadily narrowing the gap, the bemused Celeste wondered what the schoolteacher would do when she caught her—

A sharp crack split the air.

The sound of lightning striking the earth. Of frozen trees exploding in midwinter.

Of ropes snapping.

The bright day of cheerful teasing and neighborly goodwill shattered like thin ice, the whole world skewing at a sickening angle.

With burning eyes Celeste watched, numb with horror and paralyzed by dread, as the tethers overhead broke.

Desperate voices screamed and shouted warnings in vain.

The wall of the barn began to fall.

To crash down in sickening slow motion. A massive wooden hand that would smash a small girl and her teacher flat against the ground like tiny ants.

As Celeste stared, unable to look away, the doomed covered their heads with their arms as if that paltry act would protect them.

She felt her heart stop.

And then, with a groaning creak and what sounded — impossibly — like a bestial roar, the wall stopped, too, a mere foot above Liesel’s bent head.

How, she had no idea. But in the next heartbeat, Ianto was sprinting into the deadly shadow, sweeping the terrified little girl into his arms. Celeste screamed his name as he leapt forward with his fragile burden, bowling roughly into Liesel Gruben and knocking them both, tumbling and somersaulting, back into the sunlight as the wall creaked and swayed ponderously.

“Oh God, oh God,” someone was panting as they dashed toward the three. It was her, Celeste realized, as she ran out of breath, stumbled, and fell to her knees beside Ianto, who had sat up and was rocking the sobbing Avonlea, trying to calm her down.

“…How?” she gasped, shaking from head to foot.

His eyes were as wide and glazed as hers, and they both looked back as the wall finished its aborted descent and struck the ground barely two feet away. Everyone felt the shudder of the impact through their boots.

Two bulky figures stood on the opposite side, shoulders and chests heaving with exertion.

Caleb Rutledge.

And what looked like…

“Is that a bear?” A surge of wheezing, hysterical laughter threatened to claw its way out of her throat. “Did a bear just catch the falling wall?”

“Is she alright? Is she hurt?” Liesel Gruben cried, scrambling toward them. There was a long smear of dirt across her chalk white face. Grass in her hair and staining the middle of her skirt. But the schoolteacher seemed unharmed by the life-saving tackle, and single-mindedly focused on her charge.

“I think she’s alright,” Ianto said, voice strained but reassuring. He stroked the girl’s shivering back, smoothed down her messy, frizzy pigtails. She’d buried her face against the side of his neck and was crying loudly with delayed fear, fisting his shirt in her hands.

“ _Gott im Himmel_ ,” Liesel whispered, tears in her eyes. She stared at Celeste, shock reflecting shock, and abruptly lurched to her feet and staggered away with a hand clasped over her mouth. She couldn’t fault her for such a reaction — she was on the verge of vomiting herself.

“Are _you_ alright?” she demanded, grabbing Ianto’s arm. People were running toward them. Someone shouted for Dr. Pendergast.

“I’m fine.”

Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from looking him over, hands feeling for broken bones in his arms, his shoulders. There was a smear across his temple that looked like blood, but she couldn’t find any wound—

“Celeste,” he said quietly, pale eyes locking with hers. “I’m alright.”

The growing crowd encircling them was loud with giddy relief. So many were shouting their admiration and praise, no single voice was distinguishable. Lotte pushed her way through the knot with Dr. Pendergast, visibly shaken.

“That’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, and I hope nothing ever tops it,” she said as the Doc knelt down and offered the now sniffling Avonlea a lollipop.

“Does anything hurt, _fraulein_?” he asked kindly. Shaking her head, she reluctantly let go of Ianto’s shirt to reach for the sweet. “Can you sit here on my knee for a moment so I can have a look at you?” Lollipop shoved into her mouth, she shook her head again and practically burrowed into Ianto, who looked surprised but pleased.

“How is she?”

The crowd had parted to let Caleb Rutledge through. The sleeves of his shirt had split from shoulder to cuff; Celeste could see scarred skin through the rents. His brown hair was plastered to his skull with sweat; his face was a hectic and splotchy red; his breath rasped audibly in his chest.

“In a far better state than you, son,” Doc said, pushing himself to his feet. “Sit down before you fall down. My Lord, but you really caught that wall before it could crush them.”

“I didn’t hold it alone. If Bram hadn’t shifted when he did—”

A loud snuffling made Celeste turn and stare. A full-grown grizzly bear loomed over them on its hind legs, brown fur so dark it was almost black. “…Bram?” she said weakly. “That’s Bram?”

The bear huffed and lifted one massive, claw-tipped paw. A single sweep of that sharp shovel would knock her head clean off her shoulders.

“If you could shift back, Mr. Hawk, I’d greatly appreciate it,” Doc said as he checked Caleb’s pulse. “I can’t give a physical to a bear.”

The grizzly dropped onto all fours and began to amble away.

“Mr. Hawk?”

“I think he’s going to get some trousers, Doc,” Valentine Collins suggested. “There wasn’t really time for him to undress, so he sort of ruined the ones he had on.”

“Goddess Above,” exclaimed Mayor Tupelo, stepping clear of the crowd. “Where’s Miss Perdillo?”

“Here, Mr. Tupelo.”

“Miss Perdillo, I need you to craft three medals for these incredible men. That was an act of bravery worthy of serious commendation.”

“Where’s Miss Gruben?” Caleb asked as the Doc examined his eyes for burst blood vessels.

“She’s alright, just badly shaken. She went to collect herself in private,” Celeste said.

As the initial shock and horror subsided, the coherent talk began.

“How could something like this happen?”

“With all the charms everybody’s wearing? With so many of the witches here?”

“It was just an awful accident.”

“I doubt that. I mean, the ropes snapping right when a girl runs by? Those are mighty long odds, you ask me.”

“Are you saying this was intentional?”

“I’m just saying the chances of—”

“Who would want to hurt little Avonlea Reynolds? Sure, she’s a handful, but she’s just a child—”

“Shhh, not so loud, the girl’s right there! We don’t need to scare her further—”

“Where’s Yancy?”

“Drunk, I’m sure—”

“Maybe the schoolmarm was the—”

“—doubt the man even knows his daughter was in danger—”

“Thank the Goddess for Bram Hawk.”

“—Hawley’d be cutting two coffins tonight—”

“It was Rutledge who moved first. He’s the one who—”

“Enough! Enough!” Josie Barton stood atop a crate and banged a ladle against a pot. “Let the Doc finish looking the heroes over, get out of the way, and calm! Down! We just had a nasty scare, yes, but thankfully that’s all it was — a scare. And it doesn’t change the fact that we still have a job to finish. Emmett deserves this barn, and we’ve all put too much effort in _not_ to finish it. So we’re all gonna take a short break to settle our nerves and catch our breaths. And then we’re finishing this barn. If you don’t feel up to that, then that’s quite all right, you can just head on back home. But no one’s going to malinger and stir up a panic over a simple accident. I won’t allow it. Understood?”

A collective deep breath rustled through the crowd. Josie’s no-nonsense words and earthy tone were like a balm on frantic nerves. As the seconds ticked on, drawing them steadily further from the horrifying moment, Celeste felt her heart settle into a smoother rhythm and the sickening flush fade from her skin.

“In one hour, we get back to work.”


	24. Chapter 24

The rasping of saws and rat-a-tats of hammers echoed across the fields again. With plenty of unease — and with every spare volunteer keeping tight hold of the children — the wall had been lifted again, this time with the additional aid of Luisa’s and Greer’s magic double- and triple-insuring the ropes. When it had been nailed into place with twice as many nails as were strictly necessary and showed no sign of coming loose, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the second wall with renewed optimism.

Heartened, Emmett hefted a basket of vegetables from his garden onto his hip and set off to feed the jackalopes.

He passed the pump, the sheds — and stopped short. “…Seung-Ko?”

The man sitting in the shadows, back against the wall and legs tented before him, stirred, lifting from his folded arms a bronze face that was stark and haggard, eyes dry but red.

“It was my fault, Em.”

The farmer set the basket on the ground and sat down beside him. “What are you talking about?”

“The ropes snapping just when that girl was…” He swallowed with effort. “It was me. I’ve been angry all day. I wasn’t being careful with my luck.”

“Hawley looked at the ropes. They were singed in several places. It looks like somebody left them in a pile near Greer’s anvil. Sparks must have fallen onto them, and no one noticed the damage when they collected them. It was truly just an accident.”

“No,” Seung said, jaw set. “If someone left them by the anvil, it was bad luck. _My_ bad luck.”

Emmett was silent for a moment, staring across the yard to the paddock. “Did you stop and think about all of the _good_ luck that happened?”

Seung blinked. “What?”

“It was lucky that Caleb Rutledge was standing so close to the edge of the wall, and that he was strong enough to slow it down. It was lucky that Bram Hawk was next to him, and shifted before Caleb’s strength failed him. It was lucky that Mr. Llewellyn reacted so quickly and moved even faster, getting the ladies out of danger. It was, frankly, a miracle that no one was killed, let alone hurt, and that there was no damage to repair. Perhaps _that_ was all your fault, too.”

A tremor rippled through Seung; without hesitation, Emmett pulled him close and held him tightly. For several minutes, they swayed gently, his face tucked into his shoulder, hands rubbing over backs and clutching at arms.

“Better?” Emmett asked quietly when Seung finally drew back. He combed his fingers through his loose hair, tucking the inky strands behind his ear.

“Of course,” the sharp-shooter said with a wan smile and a spark of his usual spirit. “I always feel better with you. Thanks, Em. You’re a good friend, and a wise man.”

“I won’t argue with you on either count.”

“But truly.” Seung pressed his forehead to his, then kissed him softly. “Thank you.”

“Before we rejoin the party, would you like to help me feed the jacks?”

“Sure. I can do that.”

***

“Wish I could say this is the first time I’ve had to bring my brother a pair of pants,” Libby said dryly, holding up the sack of clothes. Grumbling, the grizzly gripped it gingerly in his teeth and lumbered toward the farmhouse. “You’re welcome! …The man has no manners.”

“Morgan, would you be kind enough to bless the new barn?” Emmett asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” Hazeldine’s divine representative said, setting down their glass of wine.

Morgan Mayne wasn’t a priest, nor a pastor, just as they were neither a man nor a woman. They considered themselves a conduit between humanity and nature, a channel through which the power of life and death sometimes flowed.

When pressed, they answered to “druid”, and presided over marriages, funerals, rites of passage, and naming days regardless of the participants’ religious beliefs. The varied people of Hazeldine worshipped all manner of gods and called themselves Christians, Buddhists, Taoists, Jews; they prayed to Allah, Odin, Guanyin, Legba, the Green Goddess. But there was no need for a dozen different holy men: Morgan liked to say they were on good terms with the entire pantheon, and didn’t mind being everyone’s go-between.

A light breeze played with the thick black mass of Morgan’s curly hair and tugged at the full-length white cotton robe belted tight around their narrow waist. They raised brown arms marked with spirals of blue dye, the many copper, bone, and wood bracelets encircling their slim wrists clinking musically. “Goddess, keep a kind and watchful eye over this building, and the lives housed within it. Protect it from danger and disease, malice and mistake. Let it stand sturdy and solid for generations to come. We thank you, and ask you to guide us home.”

“Guide us home,” many echoed.

Morgan sat back down next to Cotton, who had gotten a second wind as twilight approached and the temperature slowly dropped. The druid patted the man’s back before reclaiming their wine glass.

“Would you like to try some?” Ianto asked Avonlea, holding up his fork.

The girl had stuck to him like glue all day, only peeling herself away long enough to hug and reassure her father, Yancy, who had been found sprawled fast-asleep in a chair after the tumult had faded. When he was told what had very nearly happened, the man had been horrified and stricken with guilt.

“Should’ve kept an eye on her,” he’d cried, clutching her close with clumsy, dark hands. “But Bedford was complaining of a toothache, so I had Yu Jie take a look at him, and then Roland cut his hand, so I had to tend to that, and I guess I had a little too much beer with lunch, and it’s so warm, I just…”

“Poor man,” Lotte murmured to Celeste. “His wife died giving birth to their youngest, Lincoln, and he’s run ragged trying to farm _and_ care for seven children all on his own.”

“No one offers to help him?” Celeste was shocked — no, outraged. After everything she’d seen from Hazeldine, she couldn’t believe her neighbors would turn a blind eye to such a situation.

“Oh, we do what we can,” Lotte said. “We just can’t make it obvious that we’re helping. Yancy’s a very proud man. He hates to think he’s dependent on anyone, that he needs charity. So folks will say they’ve got little jobs for the kids, or that their children want the littlest ones to come over to play, so he can have a chance to breathe. James and the other farmers go out to that field he rents and tend to it when he’s busy elsewhere. Everyone overpays him for his produce. We’ve all developed little tricks the last six years.” She sighed. “But he’s never fully recovered from Roberta’s death, and sometimes he drinks a little more than he should. I’ve had to cut him off at the Pax more than once, and the last few weeks…”

“He doesn’t touch the children, does he?”

“No, no, he’s never a violent drunk. I’m worried about his health, not about his hands. But he refuses to let Doc look him over. That stubborn pride of his is a curse.”

A platoon of aunties and mothers settled around Yancy to reassure and cluck and keep careful eyes on the Reynolds boys. Avonlea had quickly tired of her father’s frantic, grasping hugs and won her escape by promising to stay close to “Mr. Ianto”.

With the remarkable resilience of youth, she now seemed utterly unfazed by her close call and had returned to her plucky, assertive ways, brazenly asking for piggy-back rides and sweets.

And Ianto was as smitten with her as she was with him, more than happy to carry her on his shoulders and listen to her nonstop chatter. Celeste had had no idea he was so good with or fond of children, but he had an undeniable gift. His habitual reticence faded around Avonlea Reynolds — but then it was hard to be shy when an eight-year-old was climbing all over you at the dinner table.

“You can have a bite, see if you like it,” Ianto said encouragingly.

“What is it?” the girl asked, craning her head to stare at his plate.

“Rarebit with onions. Mrs. Barton made it for me special.”

“What’s that?”

“Roast rabbit.”

“I was wondering about that,” Celeste asked, turning to Josie. “Considering Val’s connection with the local cotton-tails…”

“It’s one of Emmett’s jackalopes,” the cook clarified, rolling her corncob in a puddle of butter.

“Tastes like prairie dog,” Avonlea announced after much chewing. “We have dog stew twice a week. Matt can shoot one dead from a mile away with his slingshot. He promised to teach me soon as I turn ten. Papa says I can’t have a slingshot till then. Do you know how to use a slingshot, Mr. Ianto?”

“I sure don’t.”

“Then after Matt teaches me, I’ll teach you. And we can get a whole bunch of prairie dogs, and Robert will make us a big pot of stew. You’ll like it. Robert puts lotsa carrots and potatoes in it, with brown gravy and lotsa pepper. I like mine with biscuits and honey. Do you like biscuits with honey, Mr. Ianto?”

“She’ll be coming into the store every day,” Lotte told Celeste with a grin, slicing into her mutton. Avonlea was now climbing over the arm of her chair and into Ianto’s lap. “George will have to start wearing earplugs.”

“Sweetheart, let Mr. Ianto finish his meal,” Josie chided, leaning around Celeste to cluck reprovingly.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Barton,” he assured. “She’s not bothering me at all.”

***

“Whew! That was just about the best meal I’ve had all year,” announced Pete Steele, pushing his chair back from the table to lace his hands over his bulging stomach.

“Are there any yams left?” Luisa asked.

“Here ya go, Butterfly.”

“Pass me that plate of chicken,” said Bram. “And another bowl of Dupree Gumbo. And two more slices of Hildy’s cobbler.”

“Just how much are you going to eat?”

“Don’t count on leftovers,” Libby said dryly. “After a shift, he can eat an entire cow. No exaggeration.”

“Well, I’d say he’s earned a good feast. You sure missed some fireworks, Lib.”

“I suspected he’d do something dramatic today. My brother just loves to show off in front of an audience.”

“Jen, aren’t you hungry? Sweetie, you need to eat more than that. You hardly had any lunch, either.”

“I’m fine, alright? Why can’t everyone just mind their own business for one damn day?”

“Sorry, sorry…”

“You tried the salsa, didn’t you?”

“No, I did not,” Rodrigo said, sipping a glass of the green, steaming concoction Lotte had mixed for him.

“Oh, please, you _have_ to. You’ll love it. I promise.”

“Mmm! _Mon Dieu_ , that is fantastic!”

“Told you.”

“Mr. Rutledge, are you sure you’re alright?” Blythe asked, setting down her fork. “You’ve been favoring your right side.”

“Just some sore muscles,” he assured her. Wearing his jacket over his ruined shirt, he looked hot and uncomfortable.

“Have another glass of water,” she urged. The sun sat low on the horizon, and the heat of the day was beginning to dissipate, but it would still be a balmy evening, especially once the evening’s festivities started.

Caleb smiled his thanks and took a long drink. He’d rather be uncomfortable than display more of his scars; Blythe had always suspected his long sleeves and high collars hid other souvenirs of his accident.

“I’ve an idea,” she said. “What if we went up to Mr. Ingram’s house and I fixed your sleeves? A simple whipstitch wouldn’t take me more than a few minutes.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble—”

“No trouble. I’d be happy to.”

“…Only if you let me pay you tomorrow for your work.”

She frowned, but knew it would be pointless to argue. “Alright.”

Emmett listened to her request, swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes, and nodded with a generous sweep of his hand. “My home is always open.”

Like most farmhouses, Emmett’s front porch opened directly onto the kitchen and dining space. It looked odd tonight, with the table and chairs gone. To the left was a parlor-cum-office, with three bookcases, a roll-top desk, and two chairs. The back half of the house was taken up entirely by a large but narrow bedroom currently bathed in heavy orange light — the sunset shone through the trees and full wall of windows to fill the long space.

There was no question about where she’d sew; the bedroom had the best light. But for all of Emmett’s casual, open, friendly ways, Blythe still felt slightly uncomfortable about intruding on a man’s bedroom.

Her mother, an Outsider who had had a much more traditional upbringing than most in Hazeldine, had stressed that there were strict societal guidelines about what was and wasn’t proper between men and women. Sitting in a bachelor’s bedroom was on the wrong side of the line.

But Mother wasn’t here to scold her, was she? This wouldn’t destroy her reputation as Hazeldine’s finest seamstress, nor make any of her neighbors cut her cold on the streets.

And it wasn’t as if her mother had lived by what she preached; she’d come to Hazeldine after a love affair with a Brazilian sailor had soured and left her pregnant. Then she ran off when Blythe was thirteen, leaving her to the care of their closest neighbor, the elderly Mrs. Lowenthal, to elope with a prospector passing through town on the way to California. She hadn’t been the most maternal of women, nor the most stable, but she _had_ been more than a little hypocritical.

“Er,” Caleb said when she sat down in the rocker and took out the compact sewing kit she always carried in her bag. It had just occurred to him that he would have to take off not only his jacket, but his entire shirt. In the same room as Blythe Carlyle.

“I’ll face the other way,” she assured him, twisting her chair and threading a needle. “You can sit on the bed and relax. I promise, I won’t peek.”

A moment later, his hand stretched out and passed her the ripped shirt. She spread it across her lap — it was so large she could use it as a blanket — and set to work, head bowed as she stitched. The wooden frame of the wide, lumpy bed creaked ponderously behind her as he settled on its edge.

“What you did today,” she said. “…It was incredibly brave of you. To put yourself in that sort of danger.”

“I wasn’t being brave. Honestly, I didn’t even think. Didn’t consider the danger. I just moved. I think bravery requires more than reflex. Bravery is when you’re afraid, and you do it anyway. I wasn’t afraid.”

“That’s even more impressive,” she insisted. “If that was an act of pure instinct, that means you’re…” She took a steadying breath. “…brave at a fundamental level. That you’ve got goodness down to your core.”

Somehow, it was easier to say such things like this, without seeing his face or worrying about her own expression.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle.”

Outside, the screech of a violin and blast of a trumpet heralded the beginning of the dancing. Soon, the other instruments joined in — Blythe could make out the high, piping note of Rosanna’s bone flute and the steady pounding of Mr. Sorensen’s leather Viking drum. Her foot tapped along to the beat. She recognized the song instantly; it had been Tyler’s favorite. They’d danced to it twice at their wedding.

“I’m looking forward to our lessons,” Caleb said. “Perhaps, at the next to-do like this, I’ll feel up to doing one or two…”

“When would you like to start?” She’d already discussed her plan with Lotte and gotten her enthusiastic permission.

“Let’s wait a week or so. To give my muscles a chance to bounce back from being stretched out like rubber bands.”

Blythe laughed, finishing the first sleeve. “Sounds good to me.”


	25. Chapter 25

The second dance wound to a close. Yvonne set aside her violin to lean forward in her chair and hang her head over her knees.

“Miss Bae?” Snori patted her back. “Something wrong?”

“I need a break,” she said, pushing strands of her white hair back from her eyes. “Need some… air.”

“Hey, Doc?”

“No, let me,” Jenny said, forestalling Pendergast and standing quickly. “Stay put and enjoy the rest of your strudel. …Yvonne, do you think you can stand?”

“Uh-huh.”

With the hedgewitch’s arm around her waist for support, she made her way off the makeshift stage and through the crowd. Wincing in the bright light of the numerous lanterns and lightning jars, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes.

“Another headache?” Jenny asked.

“Yes. I just need some of my tea. If Yu Jie’s still here, tell her I could go for a pot.”

Away from the brightest of the lights, Yvonne sighed and opened her eyes, sinking into a shadowy chair not far from Celeste and stretching her legs out before her.

“You’re absolutely sure that you only want some tea?” Jenny asked, hands on her hips. “Sure you won’t let me or Doc give you a good looking over?”

“I’m _sure_ , Jen. Please.”

“Alright, Miss Stubborn. I’ll bring you a pot.”

“While Miss Bae gets her second wind, let’s take a short break from dancing,” suggested Snori, booming voice carrying easily over the field. “Anybody care to show us something special?”

“I will!” Nellie bounced out of her chair.

Unhooking several of the amulets from her neck, she began weaving them into glimmering, rainbow-hued patterns in the air before her, twisting them from geometric shapes into clouds splitting with lightning, roses blooming, iridescent butterflies…

Luther Dupree followed her magical display with old-fashioned juggling that may not have been as showy, but still made the children laugh as he made exaggerated faces and elaborate last-minute saves of intentionally wayward balls.

Pete Steele tried to tell an amusing anecdote, but kept interrupting himself to say, “Oh, shoulda mentioned, the man had a _blue_ hat,” and, “Did I say the dog’s name was Tex? That’s kinda important.” By the end of the meandering story, everyone was frowning with confusion but still heartily applauded the grinning cowboy as he sketched a proud bow.

“You should do something, Mr. Ianto,” Avonlea urged from her perch on his knee.

“I don’t really have any special talents.”

“Can’t you sing? I thought everybody could sing. Or make music? I got a whistle at home that Mr. Hawley carved. It sounds like a real big hoot owl. And Bedford plays songs on spoons. He bangs them on his legs. One time one flew out of his hand and hit Jacob right in the eye. It swelled up big as a plum.”

Ianto chuckled. “…I used to fiddle,” he confessed. “A long time ago.”

“I bet Yvonne would let you borrow her violin,” Celeste suggested.

“No, no, I—”

“You’re welcome to it,” the reporter spoke up from behind them. “I don’t feel up to playing any more tonight, anyway, and most of the songs call for strings. They’ll probably need someone to replace me.”

Ianto’s face was indistinct in the deepening twilight, but Celeste knew he was blushing. “I couldn’t possibly—”

Avonlea clambered onto the table, stood to her full height, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “MR. IANTO’S GONNA PLAY THE FIDDLE.”

There was a ripple of laughter.

“How do you say no to that?” Celeste said, urging him out of his chair. “C’mon, just one song.”

“…Uh, well, I haven’t played in years,” he mumbled apologetically as he took the instrument Snori held out. He turned to meet the expectant faces and visibly gulped. “I’m very sorry if this sounds a little off.”

Closing his eyes, he tucked the violin under his chin and took a deep breath. His long fingers gripped the bow. Pressed against the smooth strings.

The first notes quavered tentatively, the music hesitant and fragile. Everything and everyone fell silent, even the crickets. The whistling breeze faded, replaced by the notes filling the night.

The song unfolded slowly. The melody steadied. Grew louder and more forceful. More evocative. It wasn’t a high-spirited reel or shanty spilling from Ianto Llewelyn. Not a light and sweet ballad. Nothing like the fiddling those gathered had expected.

This was a lament, heavy and aching, sharp with loss and loneliness. A beautiful eulogy that drew every listener in, until tears shone on still faces. Couples reached for one another’s hands. Children pressed close to their mothers’ sides.

Jenny looked across the crowd and found Liesel already staring at her. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, for three piercing notes, before Liesel turned sharply away, a hand to her lips.

Walking back from the farmhouse, Blythe and Caleb froze as the song washed over them. It wasn’t magic, and yet it was, as transfixing as an enchantment. For four minutes, there was nothing but that music and their inexorable tears. When it finally dwindled and faded, Blythe came back to herself with a start.

“Goddess, that was lovely,” she said hoarsely, rubbing the heel of her hand over her wet cheeks before taking the handkerchief Caleb offered, then his arm.

In the field, for ten full seconds, there was absolute silence.

And then: a roar.

Ianto lowered the violin and stared in shock at the exuberant, unanimous standing ovation. Every face was streaked with tears, and yet they were all smiling from ear-to-ear. Bram and Snori rushed forward to clap him on the back. Dr. Pendergast was crying, “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”

And when he finally found Celeste’s face in the crowd, there was a mixture of admiration and awe in her expression that left him breathless all over again.

***

Celeste had always thought epiphanies were the product of violence. The only one she had ever experienced, as she looked down at Sibyl’s limp body, compelled her to cut her husband’s throat. It had driven her into her half-life of lies and murder, where she married men she didn’t love under names she didn’t own.

Her epiphany had meant the end of the real Celeste Preston; it had forged barred cells in her heart and welded masks onto her face, locking her into a life of impermanence and brutal pragmatism.

But Ianto’s intense concentration, the yearning in his expression as he carved that haunting, bewitching music from the violin’s strings, unlocked one of the doors in her heart.

All of the mad, unexpected events of the day —his scars, the joy he took from working, the courageous rescue, this, _all_ of the emotions — rushed in and almost overwhelmed her.

This was far more than the basic, simple lust she felt for Bram Hawk.

This was something much more dangerous.

Reeling from her revelation, Celeste sank heavily into her chair, only half-conscious of the world around her.

How was she going to handle this? What was she going to do?

“That was wonderful, Mr. Ianto,” Avonlea gushed as he reclaimed his seat (and she reclaimed his lap). “That was the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said. “It’s called ‘Eventide’. My mother taught it to me when I was your age. Miss Bae—”

The chair Yvonne had been sitting in was empty.

“Did you see where Miss Bae went?” he asked Celeste.

“No, no, I didn’t,” she said faintly, hand against her chest.

He frowned. “Anything wrong, miss?”

“No.” She flashed a brittle smile. “I’m just fine.”


	26. Chapter 26

“What if we took a blanket,” Lotte murmured in her wife’s ear as they swayed amongst the other dancers, “and went back behind the house, hmm? Into the trees, where nobody could see us?”

“Or we could just wait another hour until we get home,” Rosanna countered.

“That’s not half so fun. Or romantic.”

“What’s romantic about getting bit on the behind by a snake? That patch of woods is lousy with them.”

“Rosy,” Lotte groaned. “Why do you have to be so damn practical all the time?”

“Because I have to balance you out, darlin’,” she smirked. “Let’s just enjoy the dance, hmm?” Her hand slid from Lotte’s back to cup and squeeze flesh a little further south.

“I will if you keep that up,” Lotte sighed, kissing her deeply.

“Sheriff, Lot, apologies for interrupting—”

Rosanna broke away from the kiss with a groan. “What, Val?”

“Seung’s looking for his sister. She wasn’t feeling too hot, so he wanted to walk her home, make sure she was alright. But he can’t find her.”

“When was the last time anyone saw her?”

“Yu Jie says she was sitting over there before Ianto fiddled,” the deputy pointed, “and that she was gone not long after.”

Rosanna did some quick math. That had been two hours ago. Emmett’s farm was a little more than two miles east of town. If Yvonne had set out on foot, and her destination had been the room she rented above the _Hawk_ ’s office, she could be home by now even if she walked slowly. She may have left in the company of someone — James had already departed with a wagon filled with folks, the elderly and the families with young children, all eager for their beds. Doc and Nova had taken Cottonwood back to town at her request, Jenny had followed close behind, and she’d seen Hildy and Libby leave a short while ago. Only half of the original crowd remained.

But if Yvonne was truly ill, she could be anywhere between here and town — she could have wandered in the wrong direction, or passed out, or fallen and hurt herself.

“Val, round up everybody who isn’t drunk. Comb the entire farm. And if that turns up nothing, spread out along the road and work your way toward town. Hopefully she’s just taking a nap in a corner and we don’t have to organize a bona fide search party.”

***

“…think he fancies her?”

“ _Ja_ , I’m quite sure. The only time he stammers is around her, and he was blushing red as a tomato at Thursday’s dinner.”

“Well,” said Libby, “I hope she turns him down gently, should he ever work up the nerve to actually court her.”

“Why do you say that? What makes you so certain she does not fancy him back?”

“I dunno, Hilds, maybe it’s the fact that she’s mourned her husband for over a decade. Every dress she owns is black. Don’t you think she would’ve made _some_ sort of outward sign that she’s ready to move on by now? I just don’t see Blythe Carlyle ever taking another man’s name, and she’s not the type to make love without a ring.”

The ladies of the Tickled Pink were halfway home, strolling nonchalantly on the moonlit road. Hildy was anticipating a long, luxurious bath in their immense claw-footed tub. Libby carried a basket packed with leftover goodies. Both were looking forward to lounging in their robes and painting their nails the following day. Sunday was the one day of the week they never entertained “guests”; not for any religious reasons, simply because it was the day everyone devoted to relaxation before the next work week began

“Aw, but they make such a sweet couple,” Hildy the incurable romantic sighed. “They’re both so kind and gentle and polite. And lonely.”

_There’s a lot of that going around_ , thought Libby, a parade of faces instantly springing to mind: Seung, Jenny, Liesel, Greer...

There had been a time when Libby had worried about her lack of romantic interest; she whole-heartedly enjoyed making love, but had no desire to _be_ in love. For a while, that had made her feel less than. Broken. Abnormal. Perhaps there was something wrong with her, that she could be content with physical affection but was uncomfortable with even the thought of more. That she could only see others as friends, neighbors, acquaintances, but never as partners or spouses.

But then she saw how some were desperate for deeper bonds. The way they suffered and struggled to find someone they wanted to spend their lives with. And she was more relieved than worried. _Thank God that’s not my problem_.

“…They _deserve_ to be happy, and I could see them making the other happy, very happy,” Hildy went on blithely. “Blythe should not hold onto Tyler forever. He was a very nice man, but he’s gone, and he would not want her to pine for him at the cost of a family. And Caleb should not let his scars keep him from love and companionship. He—” She stopped short. “What is that in the road?”

Lifting their skirts, the women ran.

“It’s Yvonne,” Libby gasped, kneeling beside the prone figure sprawled across the dirt like a discarded doll. “Oh God, what happened? She couldn’t have been bitten by a snake — Seung told me—”

“Yvonne, can you hear us?” Hildy shook her gently. Brushed back the hair that had fallen over her face. “ _Liebchen_?”

Her eyelids fluttered, revealing the whites of her eyes. “…H-Hildy? I’m, I’m on fire. Burning up…”

The madame pressed a palm to her forehead. She didn’t feel feverish to the touch — in fact, she felt cool. Too cool. She looked at Libby with fear etched across her porcelain face. “Something is very, very wrong.”

“I’ll run ahead. Get Doc.”

“There may not be time for that,” Hildy said grimly, throwing aside her furled parasol and scooping Yvonne into her arms. “I’ll carry her. We all go. Now.”


	27. PART SEVEN - DANGEROUS PASSION

**P A R T S E V E N — D A N G E R O U S P A S S I O N**

Dr. Pendergast looked up from the bed, grim. “This isn’t a normal illness. There’s magic twisted up in this. Some of her symptoms appear to be an allergic reaction, while others defy categorization.”

“What can we do?” asked Hildy, hands clasped before her.

“There’s very little _I_ can do. Miss East may be her only hope.”

“She should be at her cottage by now. I’ll fetch her,” Libby said, bolting from the room.

_Son, fetch Mr. Alvarez_ , the Doc signed. Nova nodded and followed close on Libby’s heels. “Is Seung still at the party?” he asked Hildy.

“I think so. When Liberty and I called our goodbyes, he was playing cards with Caleb and Valentine.”

Sighing heavily, Dr. Pendergast laid a soft hand against Yvonne’s icy, shivering cheek.

***

Celeste and Ianto, walking slowly toward Godfrey’s Goods after seeing Avonlea home, stopped short as Libby Hawk burst out of the Doc’s office and came straight toward them. A heartbeat later, Nova emerged and took off in the opposite direction. “What’s happened?” Celeste asked, alarmed.

“Yvonne’s in a bad way. Something magical. I’ve gotta fetch Jenny,” Libby panted, face still streaked with the sweat from her run into town. The full skirt of her calico dress was a bulky hindrance slowing her down.

She was on the verge of ripping the entire blasted thing off when Ianto said, “You’re in no condition. I’ll go.”

“Then go!” Libby shouted, clutching a stitch in her side.

Handing Yvonne’s violin case to Celeste, he turned and sprinted into the darkness. Even after seeing his earlier dash, she was astounded at how fleet of foot he was. The plain, middle-aged man had surprising layers beneath his unassuming facade.

***

The moment he passed the last building, as soon as the ambient light of town was replaced by natural shadows and milky moonlight, Ianto pulled off his clothes and boots, flinging himself recklessly, mid-leap, into the shift.

His paws struck the dirt hard, the impact sending a jolt of pain rippling down his spine. His now sharper teeth clacked together, slicing the edge of his tongue.

He spat the blood out as he ran and became a long, low smudge of blue-black streaking across the undeveloped scrubland. Thorny nettles and prickerbushes ripped at his coarse coat. The harsh rasp of his own panting drowned out the warning rattles of the frightened snakes frantically slithering out of the path of a much larger predator that smelled of wild magic. His entire focus was on the dots of light burning in the distance, swiftly growing larger.

A flash of white gave away a startled hare when it broke cover and bounded east, fleeing in the direction of Emmett Ingram’s farm. Soon, Deputy Collins would know there was a wolf in his territory — he would worry about that later.

That, and the repercussions of his next act.

Back paws scoring long furrows in the dirt, Ianto sprang up and over charm-laced wire fencing, landing with a spray of leaves and a sizzle of broken protection magic in Jenny East’s herb garden. There was a flurry of movement and a cacophony of hissing and yowls as dozing cats scattered, darting under plants with backs bristled and arched, yellow fangs bared.

Ignoring the animal urge to bite and swipe at the felines, Ianto willed himself back into a two-legged form and rose from his crouch as the nearest window banged open. The double barrels of a shotgun appeared, and Jenny shouted, “Whatever you are, go away! I’ve got salt-and-silver buckshot, and I’m happy to use it!”

“Miss Jenny,” Ianto said between gulped breaths. “It’s me.”

“Ianto? What the hell—” The door swung open and she stepped out in an emerald green nightgown and unlaced boots, thick braid over one shoulder, still holding the gun. “Why’re you buck naked in my—”

“Miss Yvonne is sick. A magical sickness. Dr. Pendergast needs you to come, fast as you can.”

The hedgewitch immediately turned and shoved the gun back onto a pair of wall-mounted hooks, grabbed a canvas bag, and began dumping bottles and sachets of herbs into it. “What’re her symptoms?”

“No idea. Miss Libby just said she was in a bad way, that it was magical.”

“Headache my ass,” Jenny muttered, pulling a thick grimoire bound in fraying twine off a shelf. “She was cold to the touch, sensitive to light and sound… Hellfire, it could be a dozen different things.” Into the now bulging bag went the book. “Reba,” she called, and the calico leaped from the top of a tall apothecary case to her shoulder, hooking its tail around her neck. “Been a while since I’ve used this old thing,” she said more to herself than Ianto, pulling an ancient broom from the corner. The woody bristles were thick with cobwebs. “Hate to be so traditional. But if time’s of the essence…” She tapped it firmly against the floor, like a jammed jar, until there was a burst of green sparks and the smell of something burning. Possibly the cobwebs.

Tucking up her skirt and flinging a leg across the handle to sit astride the now hovering broom, Jenny looped the handles of the bag before her and cast a final appraising glance at Ianto. “I’d offer you a ride, but I’ve a strict pants policy.”

“I’ll get back faster on my own, Miss Jenny, but thank you.”

She nodded and took off, shooting out over the front gate with enough speed to blast a billow of dust and several muddy clods of grass through the open door.


	28. Chapter 28

The door burst open with such force, the bronze handle broke through the plaster of the opposite wall.

“What is wrong with her?”

From the other side of Yvonne’s bed, Celeste stared in open-mouthed shock at the sight of Mr. Alvarez — always so impeccable in his three-piece suits with his long hair perfectly combed and handsome face blandly polite — standing in the doorway in a disheveled nightshirt and wrinkled trousers, bellowing like a madman. When she’d heard the banker was infamous for his rages, she hadn’t fully believed it; he was always so composed. The picture of a perfect gentleman.

Now, he rushed toward the bed with frantic anguish and a palpable aura of power that was frightening. He looked ready to tear the room apart.

And was that _smoke_ leaking from his nostrils?

“Rodrigo, calm down,” Doc said, grabbing hold of his arm. Hermann Pendergast was a solid man, but Celeste could see he was straining to maintain his grip. “Miss East will be here soon. Then we will know more.”

“Did Seung do this? Is he responsible?”

“Sit down. Deep breaths. Losing your temper will not help her.”

Abruptly, as if a switch had been flicked, Rodrigo collapsed onto his knees beside the bed. Face buried in the crook of one arm, his hand groped for Yvonne’s, lying atop the coverlet and twitching fitfully. Celeste gently released the hand she’d been holding and rose from her chair at a meaningful look from the Doc.

“I had no idea they were close,” Celeste whispered when they were in the next room and Doc had closed the door behind them.

“She’s all the family he has left,” he said heavily.

“Family?”

“Miss Bae is Rodrigo’s half-sister.”

“But, Seung—”

“Also her half-brother. She and Seung share a father; she and Rodrigo had the same mother. All of their parents have passed; all they have now is each other.”

“I never see her with Mr. Alvarez. They hardly speak to one another…”

Doc sighed, sinking into one of his barber’s chairs. “Rodrigo’s situation is… Complicated. He expends enormous amounts of energy to maintain his composure, and part of that includes distancing himself from those who induce strong emotions.”

“Like Seung. Hence their ‘schedules’ to avoid crossing the other’s path.”

“Precisely, though Seung has never been one to abide by rules... Rodrigo and Yvonne know each other primarily through the correspondence they maintained while she and Seung lived in San Francisco; until the Baes came to Hazeldine ten or so years ago, she and Rodrigo had never met face-to-face. Theirs is an unusual relationship. They deeply care for one another, and yet their personalities are so different, their cultural upbringings worlds apart, that they’re usually content to live as polite strangers.”

“Until one of them is in trouble.”

“The bonds of blood can be powerful.”

Outside on the promenade, Nova paced back and forth past the open door. He stopped short, eyes on the sky, and called, “Jenny’s here!”

Celeste rushed to the door in time to see the witch land in the middle of the dimly-lit street, dismount an old-fashioned twig broom, and heft a large bag over her shoulder. The cat Reba darted between Celeste’s feet.

“Hold this,” Jenny said, thrusting the quivering broomstick at Nova. “It’s a devil to turn off and I’m not wasting the time right now.”

“She complained of feeling hot, but she’s cold and dry to the touch,” Dr. Pendergast said, shifting from worried man into calm diagnostician. Jenny strode without hesitation to the back room; he and Celeste followed close behind. “Slipped into coma six minutes after Madame Gruben brought her in. Her muscles are spasming uncontrollably. There are hives spreading across her chest, inflamed tissue around her mouth and throat. Thus far, it hasn’t hindered her breathing too badly.”

“Something she ingested caused this,” Jenny said, ignoring the statuesque Rodrigo prostrated across half of the bed and moving swiftly to the other side.

“My conclusion as well. A potion, perhaps, that has triggered an allergic reaction?”

“Almost certainly. The question is: what kind?” From her bag, Jenny took out a large clear crystal. She folded back the quilt Celeste had tucked beneath the woman’s chin and unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her small breasts and the angry patch of purpling hives blooming outwards from her heart.

Gently holding the crystal against the irritated skin, Jenny whispered in a guttural language, eyes half-lidded. A pearly glow moved from her hand to the crystal, then sank into Yvonne, who sighed deeply but did not wake. The glow reappeared on the surface of her skin and seemed to be drawn back into the crystal. When Jenny lifted it, there was a brownish red light pulsing at its center. Frowning, she laid a hand over Yvonne’s forehead and recited another chant.

“It’s difficult to get an exact bead on it,” the witch said. “Her own magic has intertwined with it, even as it tries to repel it. It’s like a tangled snarl in there. Has someone gone to get Seung?”

“Yes, Hildy went for him just as Ianto left to fetch you,” said Celeste.

“Doc, tell Nova to go to her room and bring back everything from her cupboard. Anything she could have eaten or drank. Celeste, run down to the Pax and tell Wint you need a bottle of drawing spirits.”

“Miss East,” Rodrigo said, lifting his head when the others had rushed from the room. “This was no accident. Yvonne is not one to take potions.” His face had sharpened with fear. “Someone did this to her.”

“Yes. I’m almost positive.”

“Who? Who would want her hurt?”

“I’ve no idea. And I’m not about to cast aspersions until she’s been treated and is out of danger. Keep your focus on her right now, not on any notions of revenge. Nobody needs to put out a fire tonight.”

***

Ianto jogged out of the darkness as Celeste stepped onto the promenade. “Any news?”

“Not yet,” Celeste said. He matched her brisk pace, an untied bootlace echoing the _click-clack_ of their heels with a slithering hiss. “Jenny’s worried.”

She didn’t elaborate. They both knew that if someone of Jenny’s skill was concerned, _everyone_ should be.

When Celeste had learned magic was more than fairy tales, delusions, or wishful thinking, she automatically assumed it was also infallible. A perfect cure-all that could fix anything with a wave of a wand. So long as you knew the right spell, had the right ingredients, anything was possible.

Right?

But she was realizing _that_ belief was the fairy tale.

Magic permeated Hazeldine in a dozen different forms. From the whistling green will-o-the-wisps that bobbed along the range to the ghostly woodcarver that swept the floor of the Pax every night… From the witches reading the future in their afternoon tea leaves to the bottled lightning in every house… From men who could turn into bears to tiny monsters drawn to machinery…

But people still died. In childbirth, of lingering illness, in accidents. Magic couldn’t give Nova back his hearing, or make Leah Ginsberg’s withered legs strong enough to support her without her crutches, or smooth away Ianto’s or Caleb Rutledge’s scars.

_Magic has rules_ , the witches often said. Rules and limits. Sometimes it didn’t matter how powerful you were, or how many charms and herbs you had at your disposal. Bad things still happened and some things, once damaged, couldn’t be fixed.

“Wint!” Celeste called as they entered the darkened Pax. Her voice echoed strangely in the space, without the tables and chairs to absorb the noise. “Wint, Jenny sent me to get drawing spirits.”

“I’d think she’d have a bottle of her own,” the ghost said, materializing behind the bar and pulling a tall brown bottle from the back of the second shelf.

“She needs it quickly. To help Yvonne.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Here, miss. Tell Jen I said good luck!”

In her haste to rush back, Celeste came dangerously close to tripping as the toe of her boot caught against a loose board of the promenade. Ianto was instantly steadying her before she could drop the bottle. “Thank you,” she said. “…Why are your hands so dirty?”

“Fell while running to Miss Jenny’s,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.


	29. Chapter 29

Dr. Pendergast was taping a pad of cotton to the inner crook of Yvonne’s elbow when Celeste and Ianto stepped into the room. Celeste’s eyes focused on the copper bowl sitting beside the patient’s arm. “You’re bleeding her?” She knew some still swore by the benefits of bloodletting, but usually only in the most backwoods of places; weren’t most modern medical men denouncing the practice?

“Not exactly,” said Doc. “Miss East needs blood to run her tests.”

“This is everything I could find,” Nova gasped, setting a crate of food on the floor. It wasn’t much: a few jars of pickled vegetables and spiced fruits, metal tins containing dry rice and tea blends, half a loaf of bread, and a large clay pot that smelled of something fermented. Yvonne usually ate at the tea room or Pax, occasionally at the Tickled Pink.

“Whatever she took, she took it more than once,” Jenny said. She was laying out a number of items across the table in the corner: white cotton towels, long pins, small glass bottles stoppered with cork and wax, vials and jars covered with scraps of bleached cloth bearing sigils written in charcoal. “This reaction was brought on by a steady build-up over time.”

“She hasn’t looked well all week,” said Celeste. “Haggard, like she wasn’t sleeping. I only saw her come to dinner at the Pax once.”

“A full week sounds right. A little dose each day.”

“Few people eat the exact same thing every day.”

“No,” Rodrigo said suddenly. “But many _drink_ the same thing every day.”

“The tea!” Celeste grabbed the green tin decorated with gold Chinese characters and a phoenix in mid-flight. “She’s constantly drinking tea.”

“Doc, the blood. Celeste, give me the bottle of spirits.”

Into the bowl Jenny sprinkled pinches of several powders, then a measured tablespoon of drawing spirits. Cupping the copper basin in both of her outstretched hands, she stood perfectly still and silent, her cat balanced on one shoulder. Slowly, eerily, the strands of hair that had blown loose from her braid began to rise and the calico’s fur bristled, as if they’d been struck by a bolt of electricity. Just as slowly, tiny, powdery green clumps rose from the bowl to hang suspended before the hedgewitch.

“Celeste, take one of the white towels off the table,” Jenny murmured without moving more than her lips. “Unfold it and hold it out between the cup and those lumps. You need to catch them as they fall.”

“What is it?” Ianto asked.

Jenny blinked, severing the spell. Instantly, hair and fur smoothed flat and the greenish powder sprinkled over the towel in Celeste’s hands. The witch set the copper bowl on the table before taking the towel. “ _This_ is to blame. Definitely a potion. Not one I recognize, though…”

Carefully laying the towel on the table, Jenny popped open the tea tin and sprinkled some of the pulverized leaves and flowers into a clean bowl. She repeated the same process as before, with identical results.

Outside, the clatter of wagon wheels and clopping of horse hooves grew louder. Everyone had returned from the farm; the party was well and truly over. Seung appeared, hat in hand and forehead furrowed into deep lines of concern, while half of the town crowded behind him in the salon.

“Jen, is she alright?”

“No, she’s not,” the witch said bluntly. “Is Yu Jie there?”

“What can I do?” the Chinese herbalist asked, the crowd parting like the Red Sea before Moses to let her through.

“Can you identify this?” She gestured sharply at the powder-stained towels. “It’s not one of mine.”

“Yes,” Yu Jie said readily, surprised. “It is the dried form of my passion potion.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened, taking in the familiar tea tin, the bowl of blood, Yvonne shivering in the bed. “I must fetch ingredients from my cabinet,” she said. “I may be able to neutralize whatever is still in her system.” The tall woman moved as quickly as her fitted silk dress allowed.

“Why would Yu Jie give Yvonne a passion potion? What _is_ a passion potion?” Celeste demanded.

“She made the potion, but she didn’t administer it,” Seung said with conviction, eyes fixed on his sister as he stepped past Rodrigo, past Jenny and Celeste and the Doc, to kneel at the far side of the bed and take her unclaimed hand. “Yu Jie knows everything there is to know about herbs and the way they affect people. She knows that sort of potion would be toxic to Yvonne.”

“Passion potions are popular among the elderly,” Jenny said. “Or men who have, let’s say, _difficulties_ in bed. In small doses, they provide boosts of energy. In larger doses, they inflame the senses, particularly those sensitive to lust or arousal. And in _very_ large doses, passion potions can drive a person into a sexual frenzy, until they’re desperate for release — with anyone. Hildy keeps a jar of the stuff at the Tickled Pink, to sprinkle into pastries and drinks for her customers. But she knows, just as well as Yu Jie does, that it’s only safe for human consumption. That it counteracts badly with innate magic. And that it’s only to be doled out in small portions, with permission. We have strict laws in Hazeldine about using magic or spellcraft to manipulate others beyond the limits of their knowing consent.”

“You think someone was trying to drug Yvonne into sleeping with them?” Celeste murmured, aghast and furious.

“Despicable,” Rodrigo spat, smoke once again framing his face.

“And impossible,” Seung said quietly, an icy chill to his voice and face that starkly contrasted Rodrigo’s heat. “Yvonne doesn’t feel physical attraction — for anyone. She never has. Little wonder her body is having such a dangerous reaction to the potion.”

“If the culprit’s goal was to drive her into their bed, they went about it in an odd fashion,” Jenny pointed out. “Doctoring her tea, so she’d consume small portions over a period of days, doesn’t suggest a crime of passion. That’s too patient and remote. Why not a massive dose all at once?”

An excited murmur outside the door heralded Yu Jie’s return. She carried a large clay pot. “This blend will counteract the potion and flush it from her body. She will need to drink several cups.”

“How?” Rodrigo demanded, on the edge of hysteria. “She is unconscious! She can scarcely breathe!”

“We will do what we can. What we must,” said Dr. Pendergast, shucking off his tweed coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves with grim determination. “I have some practice in getting broth and water into unconscious bodies. The nutrition they need to sustain themselves. It is not always pleasant or pretty, but if the alternative is letting the patient die, then there is not really a choice.” He turned to his son, thick fingers twisting into words. _In the surgery, in the bottom drawer of the metal cabinet. Bring me the rubber tubing and funnel._


	30. Chapter 30

In the last seven years, Celeste had watched men die by her own hand. In Arizona, she’d walked past the half-rotted body of a horse thief left hanging from the gallows. From the window of a saloon, she’d witnessed a high-noon duel that left both men twitching in the street.

She thought all of that — Sibyl’s lifeless body, Mason’s blood sprayed across the kitchen, husbands falling dead to the floor — had hardened her.

But she was wrong. She could still be squeamish.

As Jenny and Nova held Yvonne’s shivering body steady, Dr. Pendergast forced a long tube into her mouth and down her throat. Celeste couldn’t help imagining how awful it must feel, and had to fight back her own rising gorge.

“Go,” Jenny said. “And take Rodrigo with you.”

It had been explained matter-of-factly. He knew what they were doing was necessary to save his sister’s life, and the Doc had assured him that in her current state she would feel no pain or discomfort. But Rodrigo was still pacing back and forth in violent distress, hands clenching and unclenching, body tensed as if he’d leap on them at any moment.

Celeste could see how that would be distracting.

“Mr. Alvarez,” she said, stepping between him and the bed, “let’s go get some fresh air.”

“I cannot leave her,” he insisted, eyes as wild as a spooked horse’s.

_He’s on the verge of exploding_ , Celeste thought. _And after everything everyone’s said, it may be a_ literal _explosion_.

Then Ianto, bless him, moved forward and laid a gentle hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder; that seemed to steady the panicking man. (She’d almost forgotten he was still there, he had such a knack for fading into the background and keeping out of everyone’s way until he was needed.) “Mr. Alvarez,” he said, calm and practical. “We should do what Miss Preston says. Some cool air will do you good.”

“Just for a few minutes,” Celeste assured him and, between them, she and Ianto managed to steer him gently but firmly out.

Much of the curious, worried crowd in the front room had dissipated at Jenny’s barked order to “Scat!”, but a handful of people remained, sitting in chairs or leaning against the walls. A wan Yi Ze stood quickly as they appeared, her bottom lip torn from anxious chewing. “How is she?”

“They know what’s wrong, and they’re treating her now,” Celeste said, holding tight to Rodrigo’s elbow and maintaining their steady forward momentum.

“Is she gonna—” Pete Steele, looking sick himself, began, only to fall silent at the glare Celeste cut his way. Any more talk was likely to send Rodrigo hurtling back to his sister’s side; she doubted the combined strength of Ianto and herself could hold him if he changed his mind.

Once outside, some of the volatile tension ebbed from the man. It appeared that the cool air actually _was_ helpful. He took deep breaths like a swimmer surfacing from a dive. A little of the heat radiating from him dissipated.

“Dr. Pendergast explained our relationship to you, Miss Preston?” Rodrigo said, his face tilted up to the starry sky.

“Yes.”

“Our mother was human,” he said. “Yvonne takes after her more than her father. Except for the eyes. She inherited her father’s eyes, and just enough of his magic to... But sometimes, I look at her, and I see my mother. The same laugh, the same irrepressible curiosity, the same penchant for arranging others’ lives… She is only twenty-six,” the words caught sharply in his throat. “She is…”

“She’s a force of nature,” Celeste said. “I’ve never met someone with so much energy. Every day, I see her run from place to place, maintaining a social calendar that would put a millionaire to shame. And this won’t slow her down for long — she won’t allow it to. She has too much to do this week, too many appointments to keep and stories to write.”

“She’s a strong woman,” Ianto agreed. “Strong and young. She’ll rally quickly.”

“I want to believe that — I need to. But if I hope, and she…”

“She has Dr. Pendergast, Jenny, _and_ Yu Jie at her side,” said Celeste. “A great doctor, the town’s most powerful witch, and an expert herbalist. Between the three of them, with all of their combined knowledge and power, she _will_ pull through. They’ll fight Death himself if he tries to take her.”

And she could just see Jenny facing down the Grim Reaper, arms crossed, feet planted, and face set in her “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” expression. She’d throw spells and charms at him, jars and crystals if that didn’t work, and wouldn’t be above hitting him over the bony head with that huge broom currently hovering against the ceiling of Doc’s salon.

Magic couldn’t fix everything — she was beginning to accept that.

But she still had absolute faith in the power of a stubborn woman.

The door opened behind them and they turned as one to stare at Seung, dark hair damp with sweat and handsome face haggard. “She’s stopped shaking,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “The hives are beginning to clear and she’s breathing easier. Yu Jie wants to give her at least three more doses of her brew, but it’s already working. She’s getting better. She’s going to make it.”

“Thank God,” Celeste said.

Ianto crossed himself.

And Rodrigo swayed precariously, hand blindly groping out to grasp the nearest horse post. Seung rushed forward and caught him up in a fierce hug, all of their previous animosity washed away — for the moment — by a tidal wave of relief. Celeste and Ianto slipped inside to give them some privacy and share the news with those still waiting.

“She’s out of danger,” Celeste told Yi Ze, who clutched her hands and burst into hoarse, hiccupping laughter.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” the young woman gasped, tears trickling down her face. “I c-can’t seem to control m-myself.”

“There, there, _liebchen_ ,” said Hildy, folding her arms around her in a motherly, bracing hug. “It is only shock and relief. To swing so fast from panic to happiness, it can make anyone silly.”

“S-she’s my b-b-best friend.” Yi Ze’s voice was muffled against Hildy’s ample bosom. “Don’t know what I’d d-do without her.”

“Good thing you do not have to do without her. It’s alright now, sweetie, take deep breaths…”

“If you hadn’t gotten Jenny here so quickly…” Libby said to Ianto, shaking her head at what might’ve happened. “You’ve just been a hero all day, haven’t you?”

“I just help when I can,” Ianto said, eyes on his boots.

The room filled with bright, babbling voices. Pete Steele slumped into a chair, face buried in his hands and shoulders shaking. Blythe hugged a weeping Josie. The Duprees, Morgan Mayne, Bram, and Greer broke their prayer circle with a devout, if not unanimous, chorus of “Amen”, “Hallelujah!”, and “Guide us home.”

And Rosanna approached Celeste with a solemn expression that was oddly out of place amidst the rejoicing. “May I have a quick word with you?”

_She’s found the bottles in my room_ , Celeste instantly assumed with a flare of panic. _She wants to know why I’m carrying cyanide and arsenic labeled as ‘almond extract’ and ‘headache powder’ — wants to know if I had any part in Yvonne’s poisoning._ “Yes, Sheriff?”

“I’ve seen how observant you are, and Nova told me you were the first to realize Yvonne’s symptoms started a week ago. Did you notice anything unusual over that span? Anyone acting suspiciously around Yvonne, anyone going into or coming out of the _Hawk_ office who had no reason to be there?”

“No,” she replied, lightheaded with a mixture of relief and regret. “No, I didn’t.”

Rosanna nodded, disappointed — with the paucity of information rather than with Celeste. “If you recall anything, let me know. Yu Jie keeps pretty good records of her customers, but that damn powder could’ve been pilfered from someone else’s stores — it’s pretty common knowledge that Hildy has a tin of the stuff in her kitchen, helpfully labeled and on a low enough shelf that anyone could reach it without much strain. And given how many people are in and out of the Tickled Pink on a daily basis…”

“I’m still confused as to _why_ someone would give her a passion potion,” said Celeste. “Jenny had a good point: if whoever it was intended to take advantage of her, they would have given her a single huge dose and been close by when it took affect. There’s no reason to draw it out like they did.”

“I don’t know either,” Rosanna sighed heavily and gritted her teeth. One hand at her cocked hip, just above the bone grip of the pistol in its leather holster, she combed the other through her dark hair. “Perhaps this was all a terrible mistake. Maybe Yvonne’s tea order was accidentally mixed up with someone else’s, one of the old grannies accustomed to brewing a pick-me-up at lunch. All I know for sure is we’re gonna have to dig into this until we’re _certain_ of what happened. I’m not about to let something like this happen again, intentionally _or_ accidentally.”


	31. Chapter 31

“I was so afraid,” Rodrigo whispered through his tears. His hands had unconsciously fisted around Seung’s shirt; he was clinging to him as if the awful man was a lifesaver and he drowning and adrift. And, he couldn’t deny it: the weight of the gambler’s arms against his back felt good. Solid. “The last time we spoke, we argued. I yelled at her. Said things I shouldn’t have. The thought that those would be the last words between us…”

“It was a very near thing,” said Seung candidly, chin tucked over his shoulder. “If she wasn’t as strong, if Hildy and Doc and the others hadn’t moved so quickly… But she’s going to wake up. She’s going to recover. Before we know it, she’ll be meddling in our lives again.”

“Someone is responsible. Someone has to be held accountable.”

“We’ll find him, as soon as she’s back on her feet,” Seung promised, squeezing him tighter for emphasis. Rubbing from the nape of his neck to his waist in long, smooth strokes, fingers spread in a fan. Without his usual protective layers of jacket and vest to absorb the sensation, Rodrigo felt each fingertip like a brand through his thin nightshirt. “We won’t let him get away with this.”

As the fear receded and shock dulled, Rodrigo thought he could trust his feet to support him again. He needed to pull away from this tenuous truce. Extricate himself from an awkward embrace.

Except… It wasn’t awkward. It _should_ be — after all, he loathed Seung-Ko Bae, and had for years — and yet it felt…

Comfortable? Safe? How was that possible?

The night’s horrors had smashed down his defenses, leaving him reeling and reaching out for anything sturdy and reliable — how could Seung, who had neither of those qualities, feel like something he needed?

Even… wanted?

Wanting was dangerous. Wanting led to action, action led to consequences. Led to regrets. He had to get away, he had to stop this, he had to—

“I’m sorry for everything I said today,” Seung said. His breath tickled Rodrigo’s ear. “I didn’t mean any of it. I don’t mean to say half the things I say to you. More than half. My mouth just opens and out it comes.”

“You’ve never been known for your self-control,” Rodrigo said, trying to give it his usual scathing heat. But it sounded weak and half-hearted even to him. “I… I’m sorry as well. I find myself behaving irrationally around you.”

Like now, at this very moment, for instance. The way his treacherous heart was pounding, and how overly aware he was of Seung’s hands spread across his back. And of how close his mouth was, hovering over his cheek. How he could turn his head ever so slightly, and…

Seung’s lips met his, unexpectedly hesitant. The gentlest of caresses. A question instead of a demand or definitive statement. It was nothing he could have prepared himself for.

Before his thinking mind could regain control and stop his instinctual impulses, Rodrigo deepened the kiss. Slid his hands into Seung’s silky hair. Breathed in his huffed exhalation and discovered he tasted of whiskey and cinnamon. It was the sweetest first kiss he’d ever had.

_No. You cannot_. _Remember what happens when you give in to passion._

Rodrigo wrenched away with a gasping shudder, staggering several steps clear of Seung’s reach, until he was out of danger. “You may think seduction is always the answer, but I do not,” he said harshly. “I don’t bed men.”

He didn’t say he didn’t desire men. They both now knew that was a lie, and his hypocrisy would only go so far.

“Rodrigo—”

“I would rather you not use my Christian name, Mr. Bae. I think it will be better for everyone if we remain cordial but distant. And now, I would like to be alone with Yvonne.”

Doggedly refusing to meet the other man’s eyes, Rodrigo swept past him with regal disdain and teeth clenched behind lips that tingled traitorously.

Seung sat down heavily in the dirt, legs akimbo, and pressed a hand to his mouth. “I’m a fool,” he whispered to no one, then groaned and fell back to stare up at the impartial, uncaring sky. “Such a fucking fool.”

***

“Seems there’s something we should discuss,” Jenny said quietly, dunking the bowl into the bucket and scouring away the spell-tainted blood with purity sand. “About the way you leapt into my garden on all fours tonight.”

They were in the darkened alley behind Doc’s place. The hedgewitch had beckoned him from the celebrating crowd with a crook of her finger, drawing him out here under the cover of needing help to clean her supplies. But as soon as they’d stepped outside, she had drawn the toe of her shoe through the dirt, tracing the shape of a silencing circle. He’d seen the runes before and knew whatever they said next would not be overheard. “I thought you’d want to talk about that.”

“So you’re a were?”

“Yes. A Wulver.”

“Ah,” she said, raking her eyes over him with new interest. “The way Aunt Zelda talked, I didn’t think Wulvers were real. Or, if they were, that they’d all died out a long, long time ago.”

“Most of us did.”

“A pity. Are the stories true?”

“Which ones?”

“That you’re compelled to give to the less fortunate? Driven to help those in need?”

No matter the cost. It was easy for Jenny East to reduce the urgent internal forces that propelled him through life into two simple questions; far more difficult was living with them daily. There were times when his compulsions of kindness drove him mad, and he had to move on from where he had settled in order to give himself a fresh slate and just a moment of peace. No matter how thoroughly he tried to compartmentalize his nature, no matter how badly he wanted to live as a man, he was still a Wulver.

And Wulvers died young, as a rule, because they would give their last morsel of food to a stranger even when they themselves were starving, and every piece of clothing off their back in the midst of a blizzard. They would invite travelers into their homes to offer them generous hospitality, even when they knew their guests were murderous thieves planning to slit their throats, and they would throw themselves into harm’s way to protect another life, no matter how small or undeserving.

Kindness in every other species was praiseworthy. In a Wulver, it was a curse. If only they could learn moderation; if only they could temper it with self-preservation.

But no, God had not been that kind to them.

“Yes,” Ianto said somberly. “The stories are true.”

“I see.” She dumped the water out with a loud splash. The day’s excitement and terrors had taken a hard toll on her; her skin looked sallow in the moonlight. Dark rings were blooming around her eyes and she moved stiffly, like a much older woman. She wouldn’t be casting any spells for a day or two, to recuperate her vitality. “Your secret is safe with me. No one else in town will know you’re a werewolf. My oath as a witch. And if you should ever need something, my door is always open.”

“Thank you, Miss Jenny.”

“But Ianto?” she said as he turned to go.

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to hide here. And you don’t have to suffer in silence. The people of Hazeldine are a good bunch. Mostly. Mayor Tupelo may sound like a snake oil salesman, but he’s right: we like to help each other. If you open up to us, you may be pleasantly surprised.”

“What makes you think I’m suffering, Miss Jenny?” he asked, little more than a whisper.

“Pain calls to pain,” she said simply, with a sad smile.


	32. Chapter 32

Lotte Barton sat beneath the lightning oak, arms wrapped around the knees tented before her, and stared unblinking down the wagon trail, out at the dark fields and the edge of the rolling range.

The Campbell house had been dark when she first sat down three hours earlier; James and Rachel must have already been asleep when Yvonne collapsed. They would sleep soundly, peacefully, through the night and only hear the news come morning.

Hopefully, all they would hear was that Yvonne Bae had been very ill but would make a quick recovery.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t wake to a town planning a funeral…

A massive cloudbank rolled across the sky, momentarily smothering the nearly-full moon. When it passed, Lotte’s sharp eyes made out a tall, slim figure strolling slowly towards her down the wagon trail. The black of his suit and hat melted seamlessly into the night, reducing him to a hovering pale face.

“I was afraid I’d see you,” she said, glaring up at him.

“When I started out tonight, it was on the old business,” Charles admitted, taking off his Stetson and running a slender hand along the brim. His snowy white hair glowed in the darkness. “…But by the time I was halfway here, I realized I wasn’t needed after all.”

Lotte relaxed with a soft sigh. “Thank the Goddess.”

He smiled behind his thick moustache, the crinkles around his blue eyes deepening. “Mind if I sit a spell?” He gestured with his hat.

“No, I don’t mind.”

Charles settled beside her, mirroring her position and draping his wrists over his knees, hat dangling from his fingertips. “How are you, daughter?” he asked earnestly. “Happy, I hope?”

“I’m happy. Rosanna’s happy, too, and Ma. We’re all doing just fine. Wint’s been a big help. People come in every night to taste Ma’s cooking.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. How’s Miss Preston settling in?”

“Very well, I think. Though there’s still an edge to her. She’s keeping her secrets close to her chest.”

“Ah, well, give her a bit more time. She’ll blossom soon, when she realizes she’s where she’s meant to be. With people she can thrive with.”

Silence settled in the narrow space between them, a silence so deep it didn’t demand to be filled with crude noise and fury. Not so much an absence of sound as a statement in and of itself, a form of communication that only they understood.

“…If I’d come for the young lady,” Charles finally asked with genuine curiosity. “Would you have tried to stop me?”

In response, Lotte picked up a shotgun tucked into the shadow of the oak’s raised roots. She broke it open across her legs and tilted it toward him. “Salt-and-silver buckshot,” she said. “Both barrels.”

Charles threw back his head and laughed, a rich guffaw that made the skulls festooning the branches over their heads rattle and bounce. “Just like your mother — stubborn as a mule,” he said with paternal pride, reaching over to pat her back.

“You may be immortal, you may be inevitable,” Lotte conceded, “but you _can_ be delayed. If you wanted me to stand aside and let you pass unchallenged, you shouldn’t have taught me how to cheat.”

“What sort of father would I be if I didn’t want you to think for yourself? Be your own person? Do what _you_ feel is right?”

“Most fathers would be bothered to hear their daughters are willing to shoot them. But then most fathers would die if someone shot them,” she added, philosophic. “A normal family we are _not_.”

“No such thing as a normal family,” Charles said with the confidence of a king. “No such thing as normal, period. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

“Quite a phrase. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Not rightly sure. Has a nice ring, though, doesn’t it?”

“I should get back,” Lotte said, rising and shaking out her dew-dampened skirt. “Before Rosanna starts to worry. Wish I could say I look forward to seeing you again, but…”

“I understand. Hopefully, next time I’ll be bringing, not taking.”

“Goodbye, Father.”

“Goodbye, daughter. Take care of yourself.”

“Always do.”


	33. PART EIGHT - DANCING LESSONS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Jeb Dunne (Mahershala Ali) – a cowboy.

**P A R T E I G H T — D A N C I N G L E S S O N S**

“You’re fussing again,” Yvonne said.

“Are you telling me you _don’t_ want this delicious chicken noodle soup, lovingly prepared by Josie just for you? Not even with fresh yeast rolls?”

“I’m saying it’s been two weeks, I feel fine, and I’m sick to _death_ of you hovering over me.”

“Come on, just taste it — it’s full of those sweet baby carrots you love so much.”

Yvonne groaned, forehead dropping to the keys of her typewriter, a burst of jumbled letters appearing on the page before her. “Seung-Ko, you’re going to drive me mad. Mothering doesn’t suit you any more than being an invalid suits me.”

It had been a long — _loooooong_ — two weeks. The first three days had been awful. Unpleasant in ways she wished she could blot from her memory forever; she’d been so weak she could barely lift her head from the pillow, and, with her throat scraped raw, she couldn’t speak beyond a croak. Completely helpless, Dr. Pendergast, Nova, and Seung had sat at her bed in shifts, spooning broth between her lips, sponge-bathing her, helping her with the bedpan… It had all been mortifying.

And then, for a solid week, Seung insisted on carrying her or pushing her in a wheelchair to wherever she wanted to go. He slept on a pad of blankets on the floor beside her bed at night. Every day, he lingered over her like a broody hen, cutting visits short when he decided she’d pushed herself enough and needed to nap.

She hated napping. Sleeping during the day was a waste of valuable sunlight.

Their only time apart was in the early morning hours, when Seung had to make his regular patrols in search of snakes. But even then she wasn’t left alone: Rodrigo would appear, sit by her bed with a book, and offer to read aloud to her.

(Her brothers saw one another every morning as they exchanged shifts, and she’d expected to hear snide remarks or arguments, but Rodrigo and Seung were behaving themselves with odd formality. Not once did she hear them exchange a single word; they merely nodded, as cold and stiff as complete strangers, when they passed by.)

Everything she ate came directly from the Pax kitchen, prepared by Josie and passed from her hands directly to Seung’s. He didn’t want her drinking at the tea room until Yu Jie and Yi Ze finished checking every blend in their stores for tampering or incorrect labels. All of her own food had been thrown out — even the kimchi that had been fermenting for weeks — and every dish scrubbed and scoured three times over.

Yvonne suspected Seung was also taste-testing every dish before it reached her, as if she was some royal princess.

When she finally convinced him that she was strong enough to return to work, she’d hoped that would be the end of the hovering. That life would finally go back to normal.

Instead, it seemed Seung would be sitting in the corner and glowering at anyone who entered the office forever.

But she had had enough. She’d tried to be patient and compliant, because she knew it all came from a place of sincere love. From the relief on everyone’s faces after she left Doc’s, she knew she’d had a very close call. It had rattled her brothers badly; this sort of protective behavior was a natural over-reaction.

But there had to be a line drawn at some point. She was a grown woman, and she should be able to live her life the way she saw fit, without constant supervision.

If she wanted a man around to dictate to her every day, she’d just get married.

“It’s nearly one, why don’t you take a break—”

“No! I won’t! Because I don’t like to take breaks!” Yvonne exploded, standing. “I have a naming day announcement to compose for the newest Tran hatchling, and my column to write, and advertisements to design for Mr. Sorensen and Nellie. I need to go speak to the Mayor about the plan to electrify the street lamps, and to Mr. Rutledge about the generator he’s designed to power the lamps. I have _work_ to do, Seung-Ko, and I can’t get it done with you lurking and hovering! So get out! Go live your own life and let me have mine back!”

When he hesitated, clearly preparing a counter-argument, Yvonne hefted up her typewriter with both hands and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“I’ll brain you if you don’t leave. _Now_.”

Hands lifted in appeasement, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, Seung backed out slowly into the bright midday sunshine, adjusted his hat, and sauntered down the street with a jangling of spurs.

Bram poked his head out of his cramped office around the corner. “About time you ran him off.”

“Sorry, Bram,” she sighed, dropping back into her chair. “I know he can be distracting—”

“If you hadn’t kicked him out by the end of today, I’d have lost the pool.”

Yvonne snorted and turned around so he could see her magnificent eye-roll. “Should’ve known.”


	34. Chapter 34

“I keep circling back to motive,” Rosanna said, elbow propped on the bar and chin resting in her cupped hand. “I keep thinking _that_ has to be the key. If we could suss out the why, we’d know _who_ was to blame.”

“Then you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” Wint asked as he buffed the wood around the sheriff with a rag dipped in lemon polish. “Sure it wasn’t just a case of a couple cans gettin’ mixed up?”

“Almost positive. Yu Jie is too meticulous to make such a huge mistake. And her inventory proves every blend in her shop is correctly labeled. …Goddess, wish Mrs. Lowenthal was still with us.”

“Hmm,” Wint hummed in agreement with a nod. Hephzibah Lowenthal, the schoolteacher before Miss Gruben, had been a fine touch psychic. Hep could pick up anything — a pocket watch, a spool of thread, a tin of tea — and see the whole history of the object unfurl like a dream in her head. She would have known in seconds every person who had touched the poisoned tea.

Wint had always liked Hep, who’d been a few years older and like a fond big sister to him. When he’d struggled in the classroom, she’d been the one to teach him his ‘rithmetic; even as a child herself she’d been good with kids. Small wonder she grew up to be a schoolmarm. And she practically raised Miss Blythe when the girl’s wastrel mother ran off. Left her everything when she passed, including the building the seamstress had since turned into her shop and apartment. Poor Hep — she’d loved children, but she and Old Yossi had never been blessed with any of their own.

“This town does need another psychic,” Wint said. “It’s been thirteen years. Wonder why one hasn’t wandered in by now?”

There was a commotion at the card game in the corner. Jeb Dunne — handsome, tall, black, and one of Mr. San Toro’s cattle drivers — threw down his hand with a sour grimace that looked out of place on a face accustomed to smiling. “Why’d you have to come back _today_ , Bae? I’ve been on a winning streak all week, and then you saunter in and spoil it.”

“Sorry, Jeb,” Seung said, sounding anything but as he scooped up the pot, adding with a wink, “How about I make it up to you later?”

The front door swung open. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. Wint,” Celeste called as she approached the bar. “Here to pick up my pie.”

“Never would’ve suspected George Godfrey of havin’ such a sweet tooth,” Wint said. Since the barn-raising, every third day, Celeste took one of Josie’s pies to Godfrey’s Goods.

“Folks would come back from the grave for one of Ma’s pies,” Rosanna said loyally. “Dinners at Godfrey’s are becoming a regular occurrence for you, Miss Preston. Lotte says you’re only eating here on Sundays, last couple weeks.”

“I’ve been working extra hours every night after the store closes,” Celeste said airily. “Makes more sense to just eat there than walk back and forth so much. I’m only stopping in now because I’m on my way to the post office to deliver some mail before Mr. Rutledge closes for the evening.”

“Jo! Miss Preston’s here for her pie!” Wint called, literally sticking his head through the door to the kitchen. Scarcely a second later, said door swung open, momentarily disembodying the specter into a cloud of smoke. Josie strode out, waving her free hand through the grey pall.

“I know. I still hear better than you,” she scoffed. “It’s blueberry today, sweetie. A dollop of heavy cream and a glass of cold milk will go nicely with it.”

“Thanks, Josie.” Celeste tucked the tin into her basket beside a thick bundle of envelopes tied with twine. “Have a good night.”

As she hurried out, Josie and Rosanna exchanged looks.

“Think she’s _really_ working late?” the sheriff asked in an undertone.

“She must be,” her mother-in-law replied. “It boggles the imagination, trying to picture George Godfrey courting a woman. Especially a woman like that.”

***

Strolling down Main Street, Celeste savored the sugary, tangy perfume of the hot pie and the cool breeze that sculpted small clouds of dust into spinning, whirling dervishes. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the heat would be unbearable without that breeze; Rosanna said it was the Grandfather’s sweet breath, and a sign that he was content.

The farmers that came into the store had begun to mutter that dreaded word — drought — while Deputy Webster had stopped talking completely. His brown hair now looked like straw, colorless and brittle, and the light had gone entirely out of his eyes, leaving them dull as scuffed marbles. When Celeste saw the poor man standing in the middle of the road like a misplaced scarecrow, staring directly up at the sun with his mouth hanging open in a silent scream, she shivered with equal parts pity and unease.

The tableau was pathetic, yes, but also extremely eerie.

And she was experiencing just a little too much eeriness of late. It was difficult enough adjusting to the weirdness she was seeing every day, but at night her dreams were becoming uncomfortable and strange, too. In last night’s, Ianto had torn off his skin as if it was nothing more than another set of clothes, and there had been dark, shaggy hair underneath. His fingers had become claws; his face had stretched into an inhuman muzzle. Only the ice-blue eyes had been unchanged as his soft Welsh lilt transformed into a piercing howl.

It felt so _real_ in the dream — she awoke to the sensation of fur against her hand, a sensation that lingered for several seconds even in the bright morning sunshine. It had taken a good portion of the day for her to push it to the back of her mind and focus properly on her work. Or meet Ianto’s curious eyes. Because before the surreal, horrific transformation, the dream version of the Welshman had been…

Well, kissing her. With a great deal of passion.

Celeste didn’t know which was worse: that she was dreaming of Ianto in a sexual context or that she dreamt of him becoming a monster.

And the night before, George Godfrey had infiltrated her subconscious. At first, they were simply sitting together in his parlor, each reading a different book. Then George offered to read aloud from his, and as he narrated the story in a soft, sonorous voice, it was as if she was watching it inside her own head, like a play performed behind her eyelids. The colors were so bright, the figures sharply defined.

It was some fantastical fairy tale with emerald dragons and knights and fair damsels, and it wasn’t long before Celeste realized _she_ was the princess in the silk and velvet gown, George the knight in dented but polished armor saving her from the jaws of the hungry beast. The emotions — fear, bravery, relief, joy, gratitude, love — were intense, almost overwhelming, and she woke with lips tingling from a victorious, chivalric kiss.

Never, not once in her life, had Celeste dreamed of a man. Suddenly, she was dreaming of _two_. In decidedly non-platonic roles.

To say she was unsettled would be to put it mildly.

She looked down at her basket, at the sheaf of envelopes stamped with George’s dark, bold handwriting. He had actually asked Ianto to drop them at the post office. “This should cover the postage with a little to spare,” he said, pressing money into the man’s hand. “Whatever’s left over is yours.”

But as soon as he retreated upstairs, Celeste darted over. “I’ll take them,” she offered. “I have a couple of other errands to run anyway, before dinner.” And when Ianto tried to hand her the money, too, she curled his fingers over the coins with a smile. “I’ll manage.”

(It was only a few pennies, and Ianto deserved a treat; George had already told him to keep the extra, so it wasn’t as if it would be _stealing_. But for some reason her coworker looked oddly glum and conflicted about the unexpected bonus. The man was so damn honest, she suspected he ran upstairs and handed it all back the moment she left.)

She wanted to have a look at the envelopes before she handed them to Caleb Rutledge. It was a curious amount of correspondence for a shut-in who had never been Outside before. Were there distant branches of the Godfrey family tree — aunts, uncles, cousins — that he wrote to once a year? Did he exchange letters with vendors and suppliers, beyond the yellow and pink order forms she now kept track of?

She unknotted the twine and flipped through the stack with an eye on the destination addresses.

Huh. Odd. It looked like George was writing to newspapers in Arizona, California, Nevada…

_The_ _Carson City_ _Chronicle_.

Unease pinched at the back of her mind. She’d seen John Godfrey’s advertisement in _The Carson City Chronicle_. George must have found a list of all the publications his father had used.

He was checking up on her.

Had he found her letters, too? Had John been the type to hold onto something like that, or had he casually disposed of them after reading and responding? From everything she’d heard, he hadn’t been a sentimental man.

But the Godfreys all seemed to hoard things. She’d peeked into the study before lunch one day and saw how cluttered the large space was, filled with bottled ships and crammed bookcases, knick-knacks and statuary only good for collecting dust. The massive roll-top desk that dominated most of the far wall was on the verge of exploding with paper and pots of ink.

He must have found the letters.

Must be wondering why she’d signed them Sally Harper.

Before she could rethink her decision, Celeste slipped the envelope intended for _The Carson City Chronicle_ into the pocket of her dress. Resisting the urge to glance around like someone with something to hide, she schooled her face into a beatific expression, tucked the rest of the mail back into her basket, and resumed her stroll toward the post office.


	35. Chapter 35

“It must be these damn flowers,” George said, picking up the vase. “You’re allergic to them.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Godfrey.” Ianto dabbed his nose with his handkerchief. “I’ll just stay out of the parlor—” Another violent sneeze made him double over like a folded penknife. “Miss Preston brings those for you special—”

“Don’t care. Doesn’t matter. I’m not keeping something around when it causes you trouble.” He shoved open the window facing out onto the back alley and unceremoniously dumped the bouquet of wolfsbane over the sill. “I’ll have a word with her about it over dinner.”

Something had changed in George Godfrey, but it had happened subtly enough that Ianto was having a hard time putting his finger on when it began. He was still brusque, even with his kindnesses, still sharp with his words and short with his temper.

But he’d been coming downstairs more and more of late, even when Avonlea was in the store chattering a mile a minute. Rather than eat in stony silence, grunting replies to direct questions, he’d begun instigating actual conversations at the dinner table. He seemed to be sleeping better — at least Ianto didn’t hear him pacing late at night.

He was… calmer? The sort of calm that came from being more comfortable in your own skin.

But what had brought that about? One of the first things Ianto had noticed about George Godfrey, one of their most striking similarities, was how uneasy the man always was. He didn’t radiate the same nervous tension Ianto constantly felt, but it was still noticeable: the sense that something was pricking at him no matter how he sat or stood. Every time George barked at him, or stomped unceremoniously out of a room, Ianto never held it against him; he understood what it was like, never being able to truly relax. It would make even a saint grumpy and bad-mouthed.

Was it Miss Preston’s doing? But that felt counter-intuitive: every time the two were in the same room, you could almost hear the air sizzling between them. They were both stubborn to the point of obstinacy, both free with razor-edged words that flew quick and thick at the slightest provocation. George’s hackles rose the moment he saw her.

Ianto knew plenty about hackles.

“How’s your hand?” George asked. It wasn’t his usual demand couched as a question. He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Just fine,” Ianto assured him, tucking said hand into his pocket.

While cutting open a box that morning, Ianto’s knife had slipped and sliced into the heel and thumb of his left hand. Unfortunately, George had seen the accident and rushed over to staunch the blood with his handkerchief, shouting out to Celeste to fetch the medical kit from under the counter.

“We should get you to Doc,” George said, brow deeply furrowed with distress. “You probably need stitches.”

Not at all. He could already feel the skin suturing itself; his pocket knife was steel, not silver, and his inborn magic was quick to repair such simple damage.

But he couldn’t tell anyone that. Couldn’t let them see how smooth the flesh was beneath the blood-soaked handkerchief. So he assured them he could tend to it himself — that he had a terrible phobia of needles — and hurried upstairs to the lavatory with the box of ointments and bandages. He took his time washing up and binding his hand in a wholly unnecessary but convincing fashion, and took care to favor it the rest of the day. He would have to be vigilant about maintaining the ruse for the rest of the week.

“I really wish you’d let Doc take a look at it,” George said as they moved into the kitchen where the fragrant aroma of the shepherd’s pie baking in the oven made Ianto’s mouth water with anticipation. It was another old favorite from his youth; the night before, George had gotten them reminiscing on the best meals they’d ever had. Today, he’d surprised Ianto by announcing he had a superb recipe from Miss McGarrity and wanted to see how it stacked up to the pies he’d savored as a boy.

“It’s just fine. Really. But thank you.”

George looked at him for another moment before shaking his head ruefully. “Just like my father. He hated going to the doctor, too. Thought the whole profession was useless.”

“Do you miss him?”

The question escaped him before he could stop himself. Normally, Ianto would never think to ask something so personal; to step over the invisible boundary line between employer and employee. But this slightly different George, who was showing such concern for him, had him curious.

“No,” George said. Both the answer and the open honesty were equally surprising. “My father wasn’t easy to love and went out of his way to make it harder. Somewhere in my teen years, I stopped trying. I didn’t hate him, not quite, but I didn’t love him, either. That sounds awful, I know—”

“It doesn’t,” Ianto said with unaccustomed firmness. Here was something else they had in common. “Some fathers don’t deserve love.”

Michael Llewellyn hadn’t been hard like John Godfrey; no, he’d been too loose, too inconstant, too weak. A drunkard who fell into a dozen different beds, confessed his sins every Sunday, and thought that made him pure. A liar who broke his wife’s heart a hundred times before he finally smashed it completely, turning his back on them when the wife and son’s Wulver natures became too much for him to stomach. “You beg me not to spend my coin on beer and ale, when you keep giving it away to everyone you see?” he’d shouted, words slurred as always, as he hefted a pack on his back and walked out. Free to go start fresh, free to find a woman as human as he was, who wouldn’t be half so much trouble.

Downstairs, the door jangled as Miss Preston returned, using her new key to let herself in. The moment of unexpected intimacy dissolved like a soap bubble. George pulled on a pair of thick oven mitts and took out the pie in its brown ceramic dish. The tater “crust”, lightly crisped, was quickly garnished with a handful of chopped parsley.

“Josie made us a blueberry tonight,” Celeste announced, setting the tin on the table. “Pie for dinner, pie for dessert.” Her eye landed on the empty vase sitting by the sink. “Did the flowers wilt already?”

“About that: please don’t bring any more.”

“Why not? Don’t you like them?” She was looking rather intently at George.

“Honestly? No,” he said bluntly. “I don’t care for their scent. And they make Ianto sneeze.”

“Oh.” She turned her attention to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize they didn’t agree with you.”

“It’s alright—”

“Ianto, I swear,” George snorted. “You’d let someone pour hot soup in your lap and then apologize for it.”

They settled in their usual chairs and George took their plates — first Celeste’s, then Ianto’s — to load them with scoops of the shepherd’s pie, slices of sharp cheddar cheese, and buttered toast. He poured them glasses of ice cold milk and for several minutes there was comfortable silence as they ate.

It was strange, how quickly they had fallen into easy routines. Strange how natural it felt, to sit at this table and share food and conversation, how he now took it for granted that George Godfrey would serve him his meals. He was the hired help, and yet every time he walked up the stairs it was as if he left the position behind the counter with the bullets and the money. Upstairs, he wasn’t treated like an employee — he was just Ianto, just a man.

Would that change if they knew he wasn’t just a man?

There were other shifters, like Bram Hawk, who lived openly in Hazeldine without fear. But no weres, and Ianto knew that was a significant distinction. Werewolves had a reputation other shifters didn’t; they were more dangerous, more volatile, since their shifting cycles were so dependant upon the moon and their animal instincts. Other shifters didn’t _have_ to change at the full moon. Other shifters held onto more of their human mind when they wore their animal forms, while weres could lose all reason when the wolf was at its hungriest. A bear shifter would be tolerated, even venerated, in the same place where a werewolf would be hunted like a rabid monster.

Just because Hazeldine had accepted him as a drifter when other towns would’ve driven him off, didn’t mean it would open its arms to him as a were.

There were always limits to tolerance.

***

“I’ve made lists,” Yi Ze said.

Yvonne poured their cups and arched an eyebrow. “Lists?”

“Of everyone in town. _Everyone_. And then I assigned them all motives.”

“And?”

Yi Ze paused to sip her steaming jasmine tea. The Jade and Pearl had closed two hours ago. Down the street, the noise from the Pax’s evening crowd was clearly audible, but even that business would lock its door in the next hour of so. This time of year, the farmers and craftsmen needed to be up early the following morning.

“I’m not satisfied with my conclusions. Conclusion One: Jenny has the best motive out of anyone to kill you.”

Yvonne snorted tea onto her shirt. “How on earth did you come up with that?”

“You spread it far and wide that she was lonely. Ever since, she’s been deluged with unwanted attention. She told me and plenty of others on _numerous_ occasions that she’d strangle you for that if given half the chance.”

“Strangle, yes. Poison, no. Anyway, those are obviously empty threats borne of frustration. Jenny’s probably my second-closest friend, after you.” Yvonne refilled her cup. “And she wouldn’t be so frustrated if she just accepted the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

“That she and Bram Hawk would be a perfect pair,” Yvonne said with conviction. “Opposites attract, after all — and think of how gorgeous their children would be.”

Yi Ze sighed. “Vonnie, just because a pair of people _look_ good together doesn’t mean they _belong_ together. Mr. Hawk is too easy-going for Jenny; she likes to be challenged.”

“But he’s _such_ a nice man, Zizi. Warm, friendly, funny. And I’m sure he’s the type who would treat a wife like a queen. Jenny could be really happy with him.”

“Maybe. But maybe she’d be happier with someone else, and maybe he would be, too. It’s very sweet of you to want to see your boss and friend hitched, but you can’t force them together like a pair of dolls.”

“What’s your next conclusion?” Yvonne asked grumpily.

“Conclusion Two: What if it was someone who didn’t like something you wrote about them?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. But the last time I said anything obviously disparaging about someone was over a year ago. The Italian Songbird, remember?”

“Ohhh, yes,” Yi Ze giggled.

A traveling entourage of singers, dancers, and actors had spent three snowbound weeks in Hazeldine two winters ago, performing nightly at the Pax until the blizzard abated and the roads became passable again. The new wife of the troupe’s owner, a vain young beauty, believed her voice was as lovely as her face and sang in a warbling operatic style utterly unsuited to her reedy range and uneven pitch. Yvonne’s frank coverage of her performances — “This Songbird is more chicken than ruby-throated warbler, complete with bobbing head movements.” — had been a rude awakening for her after a lifetime of cosseting by her family.

But the Songbird and her troupe had been gone for months. And while Yvonne wrote honestly about her neighbors — she was, in fact, incapable of lying — she softened the sharper edges when possible. If certain things were already public knowledge, she felt no need to repeat it in print. If it had no bearing on the current news, the past could stay in the past. And if it was going into the paper, it had to be verified, substantiated fact. Rumors and gossip belonged in personal conversations, not newsprint.

“Any other conclusions?”

“Just one more — Conclusion Three: What do any of us _really_ know about Ianto and Miss Preston?”

Yvonne tried to picture either of the newest arrivals in the role of poisoner, and rejected them out of hand almost immediately. “No, I can’t see it. Why would either of them want to hurt me?”

“Like I said: I’m not satisfied with my conclusions.” Yi Ze slumped over the low table with a frustrated sigh. “…Aren’t you worried? Afraid that whoever it is will try it again?”

“A little bit,” Yvonne confessed quietly. “But don’t tell Seung-Ko or Rodrigo, or I’ll never be allowed to leave my office or eat what I want again.”

Yi Ze reached over and squeezed her hand. “I promise. And I promise we’ll figure out who did it. Even if we have to force everyone to drink pot after pot of my sister’s truth tea.”


	36. Chapter 36

“Pa, I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Caleb called from the doorway, hands cupped around his mouth. “Pa!”

The thunderous droning wound down with a metallic whine. The top half of Leland appeared from behind the latest large, boxy device he was building on his elevated platform. He lifted a thick brown leather glove to flip up the welding visor, revealing a set of green glass goggles that magnified his eyes to owlish proportions and hair so charged with static electricity the old man appeared to be crowned with a bleached tumbleweed. “What’s that, son?” he called down in the tone-deaf voice he always had after a day spent experimenting.

“I said I’m going out for the next hour or so! For my dancing lesson with Mrs. Carlyle!”

“Oh! Is it that late already?” Leland twisted to stare at the huge clock hanging on the wall. “Lord, how time flies when you’re having fun. C’mon, boys, time for supper.”

A dozen knockers climbed out of the machine, each wearing miniature versions of the scientist’s green goggles, leather gloves, and canvas apron. A couple deftly extinguished soldering irons and tiny blowtorches, while the rest dropped knocker-sized wrenches and pliers into a toolbox before shimmying down to the ground. More of the furry gremlins emerged from various corners and scampered between and around Caleb’s feet, the swarm bee-lining for the kitchen.

Leland punched the control box to lower the platform and pulled off his protective gear. “Be careful not to push yourself too hard,” he said. “Give your side plenty of time to heal.”

“I’m careful. We’re doing the waltz tonight, no reels or jigs.”

“Alright. Have fun.” He touched the metal plate screwed into the wall to discharge the bulk of the electricity sparking in his hair before patting his son on the broad back. “Anybody that’s still in the cupboards by the time I get there gets no dessert!” he called down the hall. The cacophony of clattering and rustling in the kitchen abruptly silenced. “We’ll try to keep it down to a dull roar tonight,” he added as Caleb moved to the front door. “Got a bit more work to do tonight, though, if we’re to finish on schedule.”

***

“Goddess, I hope it rains soon,” Blythe murmured to Caleb as they passed a statuesque Cotton Webster, standing beneath a lamppost and staring up at the flickering blue light in a ghost jar. She walked through a cold spot and shivered, a disembodied voice whispering indistinctly in her left ear. “And I think I need to get a fresh charm from Jenny or Nellie, before the solstice spirits arrive in force.”

“It’s strange: the ghosts never come near us. The post office and Pa’s laboratory, I mean.”

“Perhaps it’s all the electricity?”

“That’s Pa’s hypothesis. He thinks it disrupts their energy waves, or resonates on a different frequency. Something like that.”

More than once, Caleb had wondered if his father was disappointed that he took more after his mother than him. If he wished his son had a more analytical, scientific mind, his insatiable curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. Wouldn’t he be happier with a proper heir to his life’s work, with someone who would carry it on after he was gone?

But no matter what either of them would have liked, Caleb couldn’t be something he wasn’t. He enjoyed manual labor, looking at art and reading poetry, practicing his calligraphy. He liked animals and nature and observing people. But he had no interest in breaking things down and rebuilding them to operate more efficiently. He didn’t need to explain art or the natural world, felt no driving urge to analyze human behavior. He was happy to be just a spectator in the crowd, a piece of a larger puzzle. There was no need for him to see or understand the complete picture.

Over the years, he had learned it was best to live in the moment.

And right now? Blythe Carlyle was holding his arm as they walked into the dimly lit, emptied Pax. This was a moment he was happy to live in for as long as possible.

Lotte was stacking the last of the chairs onto the tables, which had already been pushed to the sides to leave a wide open space in the center for them. Caleb hurried to assist her, while Blythe had a word about the music selection with Wint.

“Help yourselves to a drink or two,” Lotte told Caleb with a wink. “Feel free to move anything, and stay as long as you like. Wint’ll lock up behind you.”

“Thank you, Miss Lotte.”

“Good night, Caleb. Good night, Blythe,” the saloonkeeper said as the women passed one another.

“Should I light another lantern?” Caleb asked when Blythe stood before him again. There were only two burning, just enough to cast a gentle pool of light over their dance space and a flickering glow across the bar’s mirror. Everything else was swallowed up by charcoal shadows.

“We won’t be moving very far or very quickly, so we shouldn’t bump into anything. Ready to begin?”

He took a breath deep enough to reach his toes and stir up the anticipatory butterflies swirling in his stomach. “Ready.”

“Tonight we’re focusing on the waltz. It’s one of the easiest dances, with only a few simple steps. First: the proper form.” Blythe stepped closer, right hand lifted. “Take my hand and hold it above shoulder height. Put your right arm around my waist, hand against my back.”

He had always been painfully aware of how oafish he was, built two sizes too big for the rest of the world. The proverbial bull in a china shop. But looming over the elegant, fine-boned seamstress, her hand dwarfed in his, Caleb felt more like an ogre than ever before. He held her hand as gently as he could for fear of crushing it.

“I’m not made of glass,” Blythe chided, fingers tightening around his. “And you’ll need to hold me closer as we dance,” she added, adjusting his arm until they stood almost chest to chest. Until he could smell the lemony hint of the soap on her skin and feel the heat radiating through the cotton of her black dress.

“When the music begins, we’re going to do what’s called a box step. You’ll step forward with your left foot as I step back on mine. Then you’ll move your right foot forward, but to the side, almost in a sweeping motion. Bring the left in next to your right, for a slight pause, then reverse the steps, stepping back with your right, sweeping the left back, then bringing your feet together again. Since your legs are longer than mine, take smaller than usual steps. We’ll start slow. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Wint, a barely visible smudge in front of the piano, began playing something light and airy, music more suited to European ballrooms than a worn, homey saloon. It was a composition intended for silk stockings and satin evening gowns, cravats and starched collars.

“Look at me, not your feet,” Blythe said. “Believe me: looking at your feet will just make them clumsy. I never watch my fingers as I stitch; a watched hand forgets everything it’s ever learned. Our bodies do better when we let them move without thinking too hard about it. There, that’s better. Small steps. One, two, three. One, two, three…”

The dim lighting made everything vague and hazy. The sharp edges of the room blurred in the fashion of dreams. Blythe’s face before him had a sepia cast to it, like a daguerreotype brought to life. She was both older and younger as they danced, the faint traces of the years indistinct as they moved, retreating and following, back and forth.

Unbidden yet inevitable, Caleb’s mind summoned the first time he saw her, twenty years ago, just days after arriving in Hazeldine.

***

He was sitting in his wheelchair in front of the post office, enjoying the heat of the summer sun through the layers of bandaging that made him look like an Egyptian mummy, half-lidded eyes watching the men building the addition that would become his father’s laboratory. Pa had just gone inside to get him a drink and his pain powder when the sound of laughter and galloping hooves woke him from his doze.

He turned to see her ride into town on a palomino filly, yellow dress and lacy petticoat hiked up above her olive knees so she could ride astride like a man, unbound black hair streaming behind her. A moment later, a second horse followed, the rider a young man with curly brown hair and a blood red shirt, hat blown off and dangling down his back on knotted strings. He was pressed low against his animal’s neck and urging it on.

“That’s Blythe York,” one of the men in the work crew said, noticing his interest. “And her beau, Tyler Carlyle. A handsome couple. Odds are they’ll be wed by next spring. A good match.”

Yes. Even at that first, brief glimpse, Caleb could see that. The pair rode with such playful joy, smiles bright on their faces. And when they were formally introduced two nights later, at a dinner organized by Josie Barton and Odessa Pavelich, they had both been friendly and kind to him. Tyler had shaken his hand gently, mindful of his bandages, and Blythe had recommended one of Melissa East’s soothing lotions to ease the itching around his scabbed scars.

Over the weeks, Tyler visited him often in his long, slow convalescence. Brought him books and pots of brightly colored ink for his calligraphy. Blythe and her adoptive mother Mrs. Lowenthal made him a quilt that first winter, long before she ever thought to turn her hobby into a career. He still had that quilt, now threadbare and faded.

He attended their wedding the following summer. They were his friends — Tyler was his closest friend at that point — and their incandescent happiness as they exchanged rings and had their first kiss as man and wife made him happy, too.

But that happiness was tempered with a sliver of sadness. He looked at Blythe, crowned in a wreath of wildflowers, and tried to smother the useless longing he had wrestled with for months.

From the moment he saw her, he’d known she was meant to be with someone else. What he felt was futile. What he wanted could never be. Someone as bright and active as Blythe belonged with someone as hale and confident as Tyler. Not a shy patchwork man who preferred to hide from the world.

Seven years went by, and he retreated further into himself and his postal sanctuary. Tyler took a job as a cattle driver for Herschel Gillenwater; what little time he had when he was off the range was naturally spent with Blythe, and their friendship waned. They reconnected briefly the winter Mrs. Lowenthal passed, when the Rutledges invited the Carlyles over for several dinners, to coax Blythe through her grief. He helped them redistribute some of the old woman’s furniture and box up heirlooms for storage.

But the tentative bonds they had begun rebuilding crumbled the following spring. He began to have bad spells of dizziness and weakness, trouble catching his breath after short walks, sharp pains in his chest. For several weeks, he was bedridden while Pa ran tests and consulted with the new doctor, Hermann Pendergast.

He remembered lying in bed the night of a cataclysmic storm, feeling the powerful concussions of thunder echo in his bones and watching the forks of lighting split the black sky beyond his window. He closed his eyes—

And opened them to a bright, sunny day. His chest ached and throbbed with a white hot pain he knew too well, the post-surgery agony of skin stitched tightly closed. His mouth was as dry as cotton, his limbs so heavy he couldn’t lift them, and he squeezed his stinging eyes shut against the natural light beaming cheerfully over his bed. Pa came in not long after, with a pitcher of water and plenty of powders.

“We had to operate, son,” Leland explained somberly. “There was a tear in the muscle of your heart. But in a few weeks, you’ll feel like your old self again.”

That was good news — so why did Pa look so glum? He wanted to ask, but couldn’t muster the strength.

Still, the question was there in his eyes, and Pa was the most observant man in the world.

“I’d like to save this for when you’re stronger, but I know you — you can tell there’s something wrong, and you’ll wonder and worry and fret until you know. Your friend Tyler had a bad accident. His horse threw him. I’m sorry, Caleb, but he’s gone. He died instantly. There wasn’t anything anybody could do.”

He was too dehydrated to cry, but he gulped in short breaths as a new pain settled in his chest. They had drifted apart, but Tyler had still been his friend. One of the best he’d ever had. And Blythe—

Oh Lord, how was she coping? Who was there for her now? She must be devastated — they loved each other _so much_ — Tyler was only twenty-seven — she’s a widow at twenty-six — how was she going to survive this?

He wanted to leap out of the bed and run to her. Do anything he could to help her, comfort her. Somehow, despite the pain and bone-deep exhaustion, he managed to push himself up from the mattress, only for his father to firmly press him back.

“You can’t do anything until you’re healthy again,” Leland said in his this-is-an-order-not-a-suggestion voice. “You’ve got to give your heart time to heal.”

Physically, yes.

But emotionally?

It was well into fall before he could return to work, walk into town unaided — and call on Blythe. And his worst fears were confirmed: she was a shell of her former self. Dressed in unrelieved mourning, all of the light that had once seemed irrepressible had dulled in her eyes. She moved as stiffly as he did, as if she, too, was recovering from a serious surgery. The amputation of her other half. She was often distracted, caught up in her own thoughts and memories, forgetful of everything not touched directly by her grief.

Somehow, she set up her shop. Months passed, then years. Everyone in town went out of their way to avoid speaking of Tyler — as if she wasn’t thinking of him every day — and he drew back, too, as if the sight of him might trigger painful memories of happier times.

Eventually, it was like they were complete strangers. She was Mrs. Carlyle, he Mr. Rutledge. Polite acquaintances who nodded as they passed one other on the street. The laughing woman in bright yellow had died with her husband. She was buried beside him in the cemetery.

And maybe he had died, too, the night of the thunderstorm. Perhaps they were both ghosts now… 

***

“I miss seeing you in bright colors.”

“What?” she stared up at him, confused by the sudden non-sequitur.

“The first time I ever saw you, you were wearing a yellow dress trimmed in lace. You were riding a palomino.”

“…Goddess, that must have been ages ago.”

“Twenty years. My father’s laboratory was being built.”

“Twenty years… Have we really known each other that long?” The confusion on her face was sincere. “It can’t be that long.”

Grief and pain did strange things to the mind. Caleb remembered very little of his childhood. There were only snatches and fragments left now; the rest had been wiped away by the train derailment that had shattered his body.

That memory was the clearest thing he had prior to Hazeldine: the screeching of the brakes failing, the shuddering crashing of the cars as they jumped the track, the scorching agony of hot steam blasting his back and the sickening, nauseating sensation of flesh tearing… 

That single moment had dissolved his past like lye. It had taken all recollections of his mother from him; he knew her now solely through two photographs and Pa’s stories.

Blythe may not have been in a train crash, may not have suffered any physical wounds, but her life had also derailed unexpectedly. Her grief had very nearly been the death of her. Was it truly surprising that her memory had suffered under such a pressure?

“It’s alright,” Caleb said. “We can’t change the past. The present is what’s important.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “…Now that you’re comfortable with the steps, let’s pick up the pace and add a left turn. With most waltzes, you spin around the floor with other couples…”


	37. PART NINE - FIRST-NAME BASIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Eduardo Ruiz (Pedro Pascal) - the notary public/record-keeper.  
> * Jessika Dupree (Angela Bassett) - a laundress/fisherwoman.  
> * Beverly Layton (Tessa Thompson) - the Duprees' daughter.  
> * Zane Dupree (Michael B. Jordan) - the Duprees' son, traveling Outside.  
> * Qu Tran (Tzi Ma) - a chicken farmer.

**P A R T N I N E — F I R S T – N A M E B A S I S**

“We haven’t sold any of the number twenty-three in over a year,” Celeste said, fighting back a yawn. She consulted the book again. “Or the seventeen.”

The hands of the clock on the wall were nearing eleven, but Celeste wasn’t quite ready to call it a night. She was determined to overhaul all of Godfrey’s Goods, which hadn’t significantly updated its selection in ten years. To that end, she wanted to winnow out the items that weren’t selling as well, expand the fabric and candy selection (two things no one else in Hazeldine could supply), and reorganize everything into more appealing and customer-friendly configurations.

She had a thorough deep-cleaning planned once they’d culled the duds and ordered fresh stock. The floor would be sanded and re-varnished, the walls painted a brighter color, and Ianto could put his carpentry skills to use and build new cases and shelving. It would be a lot of work, and it would probably take the rest of the year to finish, but the end result would be a revitalized store anyone could be proud of.

And it gave her plenty of reasons to run upstairs and consult with George, have dinner with him, work late, bring him pies that influenced his moods…

She still wasn’t entirely sure if the man really was a bastard, or merely good at acting like one. He’d been showing disquieting moments of kindness and consideration, particularly around Ianto, and she was beginning to worry she had set her sights on the wrong man.

Perhaps she was wasting her time. Perhaps her particular services would be better served elsewhere in town. Perhaps she was staying for the wrong reasons…

She watched Ianto manhandle the bolts of fabric out of their cubbies and prop them up for inspection, pushing away the dangerous spark of emotion she now felt around him.

She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted from her calling, her mission.

“I can see why they’re not selling,” said Celeste, locking her feelings behind yet another door inside her heart. “That shade of green would be awful on anybody, and that pattern looks a little too much like ants from a distance. Who wants to wear a shirt or dress that gives everyone the creepy-crawlies?”

“If you combined the two, it would make for good camouflage,” Ianto suggested with a crooked smile. “If you had to crawl through the grass.”

Celeste laughed. “Only if it would fool the thousands of snakes slithering around town. You know, I’ve spent time in some wild parts of Arizona, Nevada, Utah, and I’ve never heard of a place with such a bad snake problem.”

“There’s a local legend that explains it. Mr. Tupelo told me it, not long after I arrived, when I was helping him with some work.”

Celeste didn’t ask which Tupelo; she doubted the mayor wasted time recounting legends when he could be off glad-handing constituents. She settled on a pile of feed bags — the configuration made it an almost perfect chair — and motioned for him to continue. Ianto sat across from her on one of the fabric bolts, hands clasped before him, his lilting voice falling easily into the steady cadence of a born storyteller.

“Long before the Grandfather fell asleep, before anyone else lived here, he was sitting alone and watching the sunrise when he saw a woman coming toward him across the plain. She was young, dreadfully wounded in a dozen places, terrified and exhausted. He could see she was near collapse, and he rushed to her with his blanket and waterskin.

“She thanked him for his kindness, and told him she had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a would-be husband and his brothers.

“Her father had thought to broker a peace between their tribe and the neighboring, more war-hungry people, and had offered her up as a prize to the rival chieftain’s son. But she knew that her intended was a spiteful, hateful, violent man, and begged her father to withdraw his offer.

“But he couldn’t, you see, for fear that it would spark the war he had hoped to avoid. So the woman fled on horseback the night before the ceremony, only to find herself pursued by the men of the other tribe. She rode for three days and nights, until her horse fell dead beneath her, until she was forced to run on foot. The men followed, their own mounts lamed or dead, firing arrows and flinging rocks at her, wounding her so badly.

“In the dark of the moonless night, she escaped them. But, as she explained to Grandfather, she was sure they were still coming for her. Still hungry for her life’s blood. That she had very little time before they reappeared. She begged Grandfather to run, lest they kill him, too.

“Grandfather listened to all of this gravely, and the woman’s despair and pain struck his heart like an arrow. He took out his medicine bag and assured her that no man would ever harm her again — that no man would ever come close enough to touch her without her permission, or have the right to tell her how she should live her life. See, Grandfather was old friends with Wolf and Coyote, and they had taught him many spells.

“He placed one of these spells into a stone the river had worn a hole through, and laced a leather thong around it. This he tied around the woman’s neck. As soon as he did, each drop of blood from her many wounds became a rattlesnake the moment it touched the earth. Hundreds of snakes slithered off through the tall grass, the noise of their quivering tails as loud as a rockslide, or a rushing wave, or an avalanche. They spread out in a vast ring, and before long the woman and Grandfather heard the distant, horrified cries of men and the hissing of angry, striking snakes. Soon, the sounds faded into nothing.

“Then Grandfather bathed and bandaged the woman’s wounds, and told her she would be safe here. That any who came to this place in search of peace and security would find both and more — but that any who came with true malice in their hearts would find themselves thwarted by magic and snakes.

“‘I am Grandfather,’ he told her. ‘What do I call you?’

“‘My mother was of the Diné. She named me after the hazel tree,’ said the woman, and Grandfather laughed, for he knew many used wands of hazel to protect themselves from snakes — yet here was a Hazel who could summon them.

“‘Hazel of the Diné, we will be the guards and guides of this place. I will teach you all the magic I know, that you may pass it on to those who come later.’

“So the two founded the community we now call Hazeldine. She was the first witch to call this place home, and the children of her snakes guard the edges, driving back those who wish the town ill, while Grandfather watches over us still from his dreams beneath the grass.”

“That was lovely,” Celeste said quietly. “…I mean, there were awful parts in the story, but you told it so well.”

Ianto ducked his head. “I only repeated it the way Mr. Tupelo told it to me.”

“Even so. You’re a very good storyteller.” She didn’t tell him how strongly the tale had resonated with her; how fitting it was that she had ended up here, if that was truly how Hazeldine came to be.

“It’s late, miss. Perhaps we should call it a night.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed, covering another yawn. “We can finish this tomorrow.”

Ianto stood and offered a hand to pull her up. She took it—

_A thatched cottage covered in moss. A woman in an apron, dark curls spilling over her shoulders, coming to the doorway._

Celeste blinked and let go. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That…” She hesitated. “Never mind. I’m just tired. Not thinking straight. Good night, Ianto.”

He followed her to the door, confused and concerned. “Would you like me to walk you to the Pax, miss?”

“No, no, I’m fine, it’s just down the street. Good night.”

“…Good night.”


	38. Chapter 38

Ianto stood at the door until Celeste was out of sight, then turned the lock. Something had surprised her in the brief contact between them, something more than the flush of warmth he always felt at her touch.

Perturbed, he doused the last lantern and lightning jar, deftly navigating his way through the darkened store. It was a little late to go upstairs — he didn’t want to disturb Mr. Godfrey — but he couldn’t go to bed with so much grime on his hands.

When he opened the staircase door, he was surprised to see a faint glow on the landing above. Mr. Godfrey was still awake, sitting in one of the parlor armchairs with a book in hand.

“Apologies, sir,” Ianto said when he looked up at him. “I just need to wash up.”

“Go ahead,” George said with a calm nod.

When he emerged from the lavatory, hands and face scrubbed clean, a fresh bandage wrapped around his nonexistent wound, George set down his book and stood. “How about one last slice of pie before bed?” he suggested. “I’m in the mood for a midnight snack.”

“I could have another slice.”

“You know, it’s funny: I’ve always enjoyed cooking, but I’ve never really liked to bake,” George said as they entered the kitchen. Ianto shook a lightning jar to life while George took the milk bottle from the ice cabinet.

“Good thing Miss Preston is thoughtful enough to bring dessert so often.”

“Yes, good thing…” George murmured, cutting a generous slice of pie and sliding it onto a plate. “Ianto, has she said anything to you?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

George didn’t so much set the plates on the table as drop them with a loud clatter. “Please,” he said, frowning, “stop with the ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’. My name is George. Just because I own a store doesn’t make me better than you. I’m not a lord or a knight or landed gentry. If you expect me to call you Ianto, return the favor and call me George. Please?”

Ianto swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Alright,” he said. “I’m sorry, George.”

“And don’t apologize,” he said with exasperation, yanking out his chair and sitting with a thump. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m just…” George sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “ _I’m_ sorry. For being such an ass. You’re a saint to put up with me.”

Ianto silently sat down, eyes on his plate.

“…I meant has Miss Preston told you about herself? Her past, her plans, what she wants? Why she’s really here?”

He looked up to meet George’s demanding stare. “I think you should ask her those questions yourself,” he said, quiet but firm.

George sighed and nodded, accepting the unspoken rebuke. “Fair enough.”

“…I do think her ideas for the store are good ones,” Ianto went on after a tense pause. “That she has a good head for business.”

“There is that,” George conceded. “Every suggestion she’s made has been sound.” He took a large bite of pie and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s not too much, is it? All of the work she wants to do?”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Because I could hire more help if it’s too much. You’ve been putting in long hours—”

“I’m enjoying myself. Really.”

“Well, don’t push yourself _too_ hard. If it starts to feel overwhelming, tell me. Just holler up the stairs. I’ll come down and pitch in. It’s about time I start taking more of an active role in the business.”

“Did—” Ianto stopped short.

“Go ahead,” George encouraged, swallowing the last of his pie. “You can speak your mind around me.”

“…Did your father not want you involved? Before?”

For a moment, Ianto was sure he wouldn’t answer. Sure that he’d overstepped the line with his curiosity. Then George took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something unpleasant, and pushed his crumb-dotted plate aside to plant his elbows on the table and fold his hands together before him.

“He didn’t think it was safe,” he said softly behind his clasped hands. “For me or the customers. I… pick up things. From others. What they’re feeling. Sometimes, I take in too much. Sometimes it builds up, like steam inside a kettle, and when the pressure gets too high, it has to come screaming back out. I have these… fits, I guess you’d call them. I had one as a boy that was so bad it knocked me — and everyone close to me — out cold for a full day. It was like an invisible wave burst out of me and swept everyone under. And that was when I was a child — how much more powerful would something like that be from a grown man? It might be strong enough to kill someone.”

“So he locked you up here? He didn’t try to help you? Didn’t try to find a way for you to manage that power?”

“My mother had the same power, and it killed her before she saw thirty-two,” George said in a brittle voice. “Father was sure the same would happen to me if I had more fits. If I actively used this damned ability. The only reason I’ve lived this long is because I keep away from people.”

“…Are you really living, though? Or just surviving?”

George stared at him blankly.

“I…” Ianto struggled to find the right words. They were as slippery as fish in his head, and he badly wanted to say this right. “I’ve spent most of my life surviving. Barely surviving. Doing what I had to, not what I wanted. Moving from moment to moment but never just _being_ , always wrapped up in fear and worry and longing. I’ve never been able to stand still and enjoy — savor — anything because I always knew it wouldn’t last. That I’d have to give it up too soon. Have to move on before I was ready. Sometimes, I think I was born exhausted.

“But… For the first time in my life, here, in Hazeldine, I feel like I’m finally starting to… to _build_ something. Something that will last. Something I can hold onto, that won’t be snatched away from me. And it’s because of the people here, the space I’ve been given. I finally feel alive. And it’s because I’m finally not alone.”

George’s hand stretched across the table and covered Ianto’s, clenched into a fist beside his plate. He squeezed it gently. The Welshman looked up into dark eyes regarding him with open concern.

“I’m glad.” George’s voice was husky with barely repressed emotion. “I’m glad you’re here. Glad you found what you needed in Hazeldine. Because you—” He cleared his throat. “…The day Father died, when you walked into the store, I felt like I was drowning. And you threw me a rope to pull myself up. Thank you for that. If I was better at expressing myself, I would’ve said this weeks ago. I should have.”

“You don’t have to thank me—”

“No, I absolutely do,” George countered obstinately. “I’ll always be in your debt.”

“You’ve paid me back three times over. Quite literally. With money and food—”

“Nope. This is the sort of debt that can’t be cancelled out. I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” Ianto said gravely. “You’re indebted to me, and I’m indebted to you.”

“Yep.”

“And there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

“Nope.”

Ianto looked down at their still-joined hands. “…Aren’t you afraid being around me will trigger a fit? Why don’t you avoid me like everyone else?”

“You feel safe,” said George. “You don’t project like most people. You or Miss Preston. I don’t know why, but I’m glad.” He pulled his hand away and picked up their plates. Stood and turned to the sink.

“Miss Preston is like me?” Ianto asked, shocked. The suggestion that he had anything in common with such a beautiful, confident woman was boggling.

“In that you both give off silence, yes.”

“But you don’t feel safe around her?”

“No. Because I’m convinced she’s hiding something from me. Until I find out what it is, I can’t trust her.”

Ianto shifted uneasily in his chair. “We all have things we’d rather not speak of,” he said. “…But I can’t imagine Miss Preston hiding anything truly awful.”

“I have a very healthy imagination,” George said darkly as he washed the dishes. He turned back to face him, drying one with a towel. “You don’t have to stay downstairs,” he said. “In that storeroom with a mattress on the floor. You can have my father’s room — it’s not as if anyone else will be using it. Surely, you’d be more comfortable there.”

Except no, he wouldn’t be. But how could he explain that the current situation — sleeping rough in a space never meant to be a bedroom, that felt cold and impersonal, that contained very little he could ever consider his — was preferable? That it allowed him to relax because nothing about it set off his Wulver compulsions or sense of undeserved luxury? That the transient nature of the arrangement had a calming effect, giving him the illusion of impermanence while allowing him to settle down for once?

He couldn’t make George understand without explaining what he was. And for all of their confiding tonight, he still wasn’t ready to reveal that secret.

He may never be ready.

“No,” Ianto said. “Please, I’m just fine where I am. I’m plenty comfortable downstairs.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, si— George.” He stood and pushed his chair under the table. “Thank you, for the pie and the kind gestures. Good night.”

“Good night.”


	39. Chapter 39

Jenny jolted awake with a snort. “Unless someone’s dyin’, go ‘way,” she shouted at whoever was knocking at the door, pushing a cat off the edge of her pillow and burying her face in the hair-covered fabric. “Too early…”

“Jenny, please, I need to talk to you.”

“Ugggggggh,” the hedgewitch groaned, rolling out of her bed. Several dislodged cats yowled before snuggling back into the rumpled sheets.

The door creaked open and Jenny blinked blearily at Celeste in the early morning light, hair a tangled bird’s nest around her face. “What time’s it?” she demanded.

“Around six. Can I come in?”

“Ugggghhhh…” She left the door open and staggered back into the cottage, flopping face-first onto her bed. Annoyed cats scattered to the corners and crouched under furniture.

“You’re usually more chipper in the morning,” Celeste said as she closed the door behind her.

“Solstice soon. Spent all night making ghost jars ‘n charms.” The witch’s voice was garbled by the quilt she was laying on. “Wore me out.”

Celeste noticed the uncorked wine bottle on the bedside table. “Uh-huh. Is that all you did?”

“…Might’ve had some elderberry wine. A glass or two.”

“Or four or five?” Celeste tipped the bottle over the empty glass beside it. A single purple drop dripped from the rim. “Everything alright?”

“A girl can drink herself senseless now and then if she wants to,” Jenny grumbled. “I’m grown. And what’s wrong with you?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here at the crack of dawn waking me up?”

“I wanted to talk before work.”

Jenny surfaced from the quilt to glare at her. “We could’ve talked at lunch, or at dinner, or after work.”

Celeste dragged a chair from the table and sat down next to the bed. “Jen, I need a potion.”

“Oh?” She rolled onto her side and propped up an elbow to support her aching head. “What kind of potion?”

“Can you make me something for a dreamless sleep?”

“You’re having nightmares?”

“…Not exactly.”

“Oh, now you _have_ to elaborate.”

Celeste frowned and picked at a hangnail on her thumb. “…I’ve just been having unsettling dreams the last few days.”

“About…?”

“Does it really matter what they were about?”

“If they’ve got you willing to drink a potion? Hell yeah it matters. Stop being coy and just spit it out.”

“Fine,” Celeste huffed. “I’ve been dreaming about Ianto and Mr. Godfrey.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across the hedgewitch’s face. “…And what have they been doing in these dreams?” she asked with barely suppressed glee. “Should I put on some pearls so I have something to clutch?”

“Let’s just say the dreams have been vivid and unsettling and making my working days difficult, shall we?”

“How vivid? Are you waking up all hot and bothered?”

“You’re enjoying this far too much—”

“Are you dreaming about them singly, or together?” Jenny sat up and crossed her legs before her. “Like, is this a group effort? Are all the hands involved?” A crimson blush spread across Celeste’s face. Jenny’s ensuing cackle was thoroughly witchy. “Oh my Goddess, you have!”

“Only last night,” Celeste protested weakly, as if the distinction was important. “Before, it was just singly. Oh God…” She covered her face with her hands. “I’ve never had dreams like this before. They’re driving me crazy.”

“You don’t need a potion to fix that,” Jenny said knowingly. “Just pull Ianto into that storeroom he sleeps in, lock the door, tear all his clothes off, and—”

“Jennifer East!”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. Not at all.”

“No, I’m not,” she agreed readily. “…It’s not a bad suggestion, though, honestly. You never know — Ianto might be amazing in bed. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones you least suspect—”

“Stop talking.”

“And it might be good for him. Might help the poor man finally relax. He’s bound to feel better with some physical release—”

Celeste leaned forward and clapped a hand over Jenny’s mouth. “Shut. Up. This isn’t helping.”

“Mmm-hmm-mmmph?” Jenny ‘said’.

“If I take my hand away, will you say something constructive?”

“Mmm-hmm!”

Slowly, Celeste pulled back.

“…At least I didn’t suggest having your way with George Godfrey on his kitchen table,” the witch said, grinning impishly. “Because _that_ would be _pure_ fantasy— No, wait, I’ll be good, I promise,” she laughed, squirming out of reach as Celeste pinched her bare legs.

“Seriously, Jenny. I can’t keep having these dreams. It’s getting so I can’t look either of them in the eye.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll help. But a potion will only be a short-term cure,” she warned, climbing out of bed and moving to the huge apothecary case that took up most of the back wall. She rummaged through various small drawers and cubbies, climbing up onto a narrow rolling ladder to reach higher jars. “You’ll only be able to take it for a few days at a time.”

“Why’s that?”

“The mind _needs_ to dream. Don’t ask me why, I only know that it does. Go too long without dreams, and no amount of sleep will make you feel rested. So if you take the potion for a full week, you need to abstain for a full week. So on and so forth. Otherwise you’ll start feeling like the undead. The kind that still rots.”

“Please don’t elaborate. I don’t want to know.”

“Meanwhile, you’ll need to work on addressing the root cause of the issue,” the witch continued sagely as she combined ingredients into a large clay bowl and pulverized the mixture with a hefty blackthorn pestle. “You, my dear, need a tumble. Clearly, your mind is searching for an outlet your body has been craving but denied. No, wait, before you get all miss-ish on me and act offended, hear me out. For some people, sex can be an important part of well-being. It’s good exercise. It releases tension. Helps clear the mind,” she added with emphasis and an arched eyebrow. “Go too long without physical contact, and the body starts to long for touch, crave it, to the point of distraction.”

“But I’ve never been all that… lustful,” Celeste said. Something bumped her leg and she looked down to find Reba rubbing against her calf. She scratched the cat’s ears. “And I’ve never really enjoyed the act itself. Honestly, I don’t understand its appeal.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Your past lovers were bad ones. Believe me: when you’re with someone who knows what they’re doing, someone with experience, or someone you actually _want_ to be with — that makes _all_ the difference.”

Celeste chewed her bottom lip pensively.

“Believe it or not, Seung can be very discreet when he needs to be,” Jenny suggested lightly. “Or you could pay a call on Emmett Ingram — his farm’s nice and private, away from any prying eyes, and as he likes to say: his door is always open. I hear he’s very comfortable with making his neighbors feel welcomed.”

“Oh my God, Jen, you’re not serious.”

“As the grave. I can’t speak from experience with Emmett, but Hildy and Libby are always singing his praises.”

The underlying implication sank in slowly and Celeste stared at her agape. “But you _can_ speak from experience with Seung Bae?”

“He’s not all brag,” Jenny grinned. “The man _more_ than delivers on his promises.”

“…I can’t,” Celeste finally said when her stalled train of thought started moving again. “No offense meant to you, but I couldn’t do something like that. Not with men I’d have to pass on the street the next day and pretend like nothing happened.”

Jenny shrugged, slotting a funnel into a clean jar and pouring the powdered contents of the bowl into it. “No offense taken. No two people are made exactly the same. If you don’t want to take that route to relief, you can wear yourself out in other ways. Go riding, take long walks, lift those big feed bags in the store. With enough exercise, you’ll sleep deeply enough that you won’t remember the dreams come morning.”

That shouldn’t be a problem. Lord knew she’d have plenty to occupy her at work in the coming weeks.

But every day, while she was doing all that work, she’d be around the two lead actors in her subconscious’ very colorful fantasies.

That _was_ a problem.

“One teaspoon in one large glass of water within an hour of going to bed. Whatever the temptation, don’t overuse this,” Jenny said firmly as she pasted a label reading **DREAMLESS SLEEP** onto the jar and handed it to Celeste. “And think about what I said. Keep your mind open to the possibilities.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Next full moon is Friday. Be here by eight o’clock to help me harvest my night-blooming herbs and flowers. It should only take us a couple hours.”

“Thanks, Jenny.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to work, let me go back to bed… and ravish Ianto senseless on your lunch break,” she called.

Celeste glared over her shoulder and closed the door with a firm _click_.

***

Walking back into town on the beaten path bordered by snake-repelling ash, Celeste paused, squinted, and held up a hand to shield her eyes. Something moved on the distant western horizon, near the Tran farm. Whatever it was, it was dark colored, slung low to the ground, and looked large. But it was too far away to be sure, and with heat already radiating up from the earth in distorting, tremulous waves, nothing in the distance looked solid or stationary.

In the space between blinks, whatever it was disappeared. Maybe there had been nothing there to begin with — just a shadow from a solitary cloud playing tricks on her eyes.

A few minutes later, she stepped onto Main Street to find an unusual trio standing together, consulting what looked like a map.

“Morning, Mayor. Mr. Rutledge. Mr. Ruiz,” she called as she approached.

“Good morning, Miss Preston,” said Mayor Tupelo, resplendent in a bottle green suit, sweeping off his bowler hat like a true gentleman. “You’re out and about early today. And looking lovely, might I add?”

“Thank you,” she smiled politely. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Finalizing the layout for the electric lamp posts, miss,” said Leland Rutledge.

“Ahh.” Then that was a surveyor’s map Eduardo Ruiz — the notary public, city planner, and record-keeper of Hazeldine — was holding and staring at so intently.

Every time Celeste had seen the man before, he was grinning and boisterous, the type who always had a glass of beer in one hand and a joke tumbling from the tip of his tongue. In his mid-forties, his nose was broad and prominent, his olive face clean-shaven save for a thin, patchy brown moustache. His dark eyes were framed by deep crinkles carved by thousands of easy smiles. Today, focused on his work and jaw tight with concentration, he seemed much smaller than usual, oddly diminished.

“Hope everything goes smoothly,” Celeste said.

“Thank you, Miss Preston. Have a wonderful day.”

“A very polite young woman,” Leland said as they watched her greet the Captains, unlock the door to Godfrey’s Goods, and slip inside.

“Yes, she’s a fine addition to the town,” agreed Will.

“A beauty, too.”

“Hmm?” hummed Eduardo.

“Miss Preston. I was just commenting on how pretty she is.”

“Yes, a real beauty,” was the murmured, monotone agreement.

“Ed, look up for a moment.” Leland snapped his fingers in front of the Latino man’s face.

“Oh, sorry, miles away,” he apologized, shaking his head and focusing on their faces with abruptly brighter eyes. “It’s so easy to get distracted when you start to dive. I never noticed before: there’s a giant skeleton under the Pink.”

“How far down?” asked Leland with interest.

“Oh, several hundreds of feet. Near the lake. Far too deep to reach with shovels. And thousands of years old — there’s an immense shell. It must have belonged to an ancient turtle.”

“Very interesting, but let’s try to concentrate on the immediate work at hand,” advised the mayor, tapping the sheet the planner still held.

“I still maintain that it’d be easier and cheaper to string the wires from the tops of each pole,” Leland said. “That’d make any future repairs or upgrades much simpler, and it would be immediately obvious where any problems were should anything short.”

“I agree with you, Mr. Rutledge, but we have to consider all of the factors,” the mayor said. “Having exposed wires high above the street would prove hazardous to anything or anyone that flies, and should one break and fall there would be a risk of electrocution to pedestrians. Burying the lines in rubber hosing may be more costly and require more effort, but overall it will be less dangerous.”

Leland sighed but nodded in concession. Will Tupelo had been mayor for years for a reason: for all of his theatrical airs, he truly cared about the people he represented. He never failed to put them first, and he had a damn good point in this case.

“Whoever originally laid out the town was either like me or one of the Fae,” Eduardo said, voice assuming that slightly dreamy quality it had when he was looking beneath the surface. He took a pencil nubbin from behind his ear and traced gently across the paper. “Main Street runs directly over the central leyline, following it almost perfectly on its path to the Grandfather. Queen Street—” the large road that divided Main and almost perfectly quartered Hazeldine, “follows the secondary leyline until it swerves north here. Where the streets cross, between the jail and the Pax, we shouldn’t dig. The lines are right next to each other and close to the surface there, and striking them with iron or steel shovels could be catastrophic.”

“The primary generator, I think, should be put behind the bank,” Leland suggested. “At the northwest corner. The bank’s the most solid construction in town. It’s got the thickest walls, all of those bars and sheets of steel. Should anything, God forbid, happen to make the generator burst, the building will act as a shield against debris. From that spot, the machine will be able to power almost all of Main and the west half of Queen. The smaller generator can go next to my lab; that’ll power the rest of Main.”

“How many of the original lamp posts will we be able to use?”

“Most of them,” replied Eduardo. “We’ll need to move these two, take down this one…” He made several notations with his pencil.

“The ultimate goal will be to one day power the whole of town,” Will said, turning to Leland. “The Bartons have already come to me about electrifying the Pax. But how many generators will it take to light up all of Hazeldine? Ten, fifteen? That seems untenable to me. And far too dangerous.”

“I’ve spent a goodly portion of my life learning how to harness electricity through machinery,” said the scientist. “It’s all about trial and error, practice and refinement. This street lamp project has been extremely enlightening, if you’ll pardon the pun. Give me another year or three, and I should be able to construct a single, relatively compact generator capable of sustaining the entire town. Keep in mind, mayor, that right now even major Outside cities are struggling to meet demands — and they have infinitely more resources than I do. Of course, they’re also using much larger, less efficient machines, too,” he couldn’t help but add with just a touch of smugness. “When it comes to delicate work, it pays to have an army of gremlin assistants.”

“I want to do a final walk along the route, Mr. Tupelo, to make sure there aren’t any weak spots or hidden surprises,” Eduardo announced, shaking his head to clear it. “But we should be able to begin breaking ground this afternoon.”


	40. Chapter 40

“Good morning, Mrs. Dupree,” Ianto called from atop the ladder. “I’ll be right with you—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Celeste said, weaving quickly around the shelves. “Here to pick up the laundry?”

“Yes, and a large bag of the red peppermints, too. To satisfy the ever-hungry sweet tooth of that husband of mine.”

Jessika Dupree was one of the most striking women Celeste had ever seen, with her deep brown skin and the pure white dreadlocks she wore wrapped around her head like a braided turban. In her sixties, she looked much younger despite the white hair and moved with the supple grace of a woman half her age. She was the town laundress and a talented fisherwoman, and yet she dressed like a queen in vivid jewel-toned skirts and draped pearl necklaces. Today, she glowed in sunflower yellow off-set by brown checks.

The Duprees were Outsiders originally from New Orleans, and there was still a hint of the bayou in Jessika’s honeyed voice — unlike her husband, Luther, whose every word proclaimed him a Cajun, her accent was much subtler. During one of the more spirited dances at the barn-raising, Celeste had found herself sitting beside the older woman and hesitant to say anything, intimidated by her regal bearing.

But then Jessika stretched out a hand with a motherly smile. “We haven’t been introduced yet, _cherie_. Jessika Dupree.”

“Mrs. Dupree?” Having already met Luther — a jovial man with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, sparkling blue eyes, a gray beard, and darkly tanned skin — Celeste had imagined a far different woman as his wife.

“It took an elopement and running all the way out here, but yes, I’m Mrs. Dupree. Have been for, oh, nigh on forty years now.”

Since that meeting, Celeste had learned that the Duprees had two grown children: Beverly Layton, who lived on the far southeast edge of town with her farmer husband and daughter Penny; and Zane, who had “gone traveling” Outside to satisfy his wanderlust.

“Here’re your peppermints,” Celeste said, tilting three large scoopfuls of the candy into a paper bag, folding it closed, and handing it over the counter. “And I’ll be right back down with the laundry.”

“Miss, I can do that,” Ianto said as she rushed past him. “The bag can be heavy.”

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, pulling open the staircase door—

And looking up to find George looming over her, a drawstring sack slung over his shoulder as if he was a grumpy, beige-colored Santa Claus. They stared at each other for a long beat before he cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Step aside, please, Miss Preston,” he said coldly. “I’m not Wint Boessenecker — I can’t walk through you.”

She didn’t dignify that with a verbal response, though she did step back with a saccharine smile.

As George followed Mrs. Dupree out to toss his laundry bag onto the two-wheeled cart pulled by her donkey Pépé, Blythe passed him to enter the store with a curious expression of determination on her sharp face.

“Hello, Celeste, Ianto,” she said, heading straight for the fabric wall.

“Oh, Blythe, I’m glad you’re here,” Celeste said, darting behind the counter to snatch up a thick catalogue. “I’m going to convince Mr. Godfrey to order at least fifteen new bolts of fabric, and I really need your professional opinion. I’ve circled the ones I think will sell the best. What do you think?”

“…I’d say order the purple instead of the blue in this. It’s pricier, yes, but I know several ladies who would love to have a purple dress in their wardrobes, at any cost. Otherwise, you’ve got a very good eye. These should be popular.”

“Great. Thanks. What can I cut for you today?”

Blythe considered the array before her. Not the green, it was a little too hazel — it would do nothing for her olive complexion. The blue was too dark. That was more mustard than yellow…

“Four yards of the cherry red cotton, please,” she decided. “And then I need to pick out some buttons.”

***

“The work today will be both hard and simple,” Leland announced to the gathered volunteers, pacing back and forth like a general before his troops, a knocker perched on his shoulder. “You’ll be digging narrow trenches — one foot wide, three feet deep — following the chalked lines drawn by Ed. Into these trenches will go the lines to power the new street lamps. Hideo, you’ll help me with wrapping the rubber insulation around the wires before they go into the ground. We’ll start here and work our way south down Main. And remember: don’t deviate from the guidelines. Everyone ready?”

There was a chorus of agreement and the small crowd split, pulling on work gloves and picking up shovels.

Greer Perdillo quickly set the pace, swinging a substantial pick-axe she’d modified, one end hammered flat into a scoop. The blacksmith smoothly hefted the top-heavy tool over her head, the muscles of her arms bulging, and brought it smashing down to break the packed earth of the road as if it weighed nothing, digging deep, perfectly straight furrows. The eldest Reynolds boy, fourteen-year-old Matthew, kept well out of the way until she had progressed several feet, then started widening and deepening the trench with his shovel.

On the opposite side of the street, Bram was doing his best to match Greer blow for blow, but it was a visible effort. He puffed for breath, forehead dotted with beads of sweat, while Jeb Dunne grinned and followed him at a much steadier pace.

“Having some stamina issues?” the cowboy asked, earning a sharp glare in reply.

Seung straightened to wipe his face with a handkerchief, eyes straying to the bank across the street. With the afternoon sun glinting off the barred windows, it was impossible to see within. Impossible to tell if anyone inside was looking out.

Sighing, Seung adjusted his hat, re-rolled his sleeves, and stomped down hard on his shovel.

“Too bad… you can’t move earth… Instead of just seein’ through it,” Boston Drake panted as he and Eduardo worked side by side.

“Too bad it’s been so dry,” said Valentine, pausing to glance over at Cotton, who he’d left in a shaded chair. The other deputy looked asleep, slumped to one side, head bowed. “Web would’ve been a big help.”

“Greer’s side is gonna finish before us,” Jeb told Bram when they took a short break to gulp down glasses of water doled out by Lotte. “Looks like Qu’s joining in.”

Bram turned to watch as Mr. Tran left his wagon parked in the middle of the street, bags of feed piled in the back, and hopped down from the seat. The squat Chinese man wore a floppy straw hat and black trousers rolled up to his knees, clawed, scaly feet bare as always. Greer paused in her pummeling to speak to him, clearly explaining what was going on. A moment later, he bustled down the line and began industriously scratching away at the dirt, rather like the chickens his family raised.

“Sometimes I’m jealous of you shifters,” Jeb added. “It’d be handy, being able to grow some talons or claws.”

“Qu’s a fenghuang, not a shifter.”

“He can go from human to bird whenever he wants, can’t he? That’s a shifter in my book.”

“Just don’t say that around him — his kind have been venerated like gods in China. Implying he’s like me would be a grave insult,” Bram said dryly. The farmer looked dowdy and plain, but he was prouder than a lord.

Though perhaps a peacock would be the more apropos comparison.

“Y’know, if I was actually interested in bedding women, I think Greer would be my first choice,” Jeb mused, leaning on his shovel. “She’s sure something…”

Sipping his water, Bram glanced back at the blacksmith. The woman was tireless, he had to give her that. Swinging a twelve-pound pick-axe a hundred times was no mean feat. And, he privately admitted — admiring the glint of her dark hair in the sun, the way her muscular arms flexed and full chest heaved with each deep breath — there was certainly something about her to entice a man…

Bram knew now that he’d allowed himself to become blinkered. He’d spent months focused wholly on Jenny East after deciding she was as near perfect as a woman could get. Drawn to her capability, her pretty face and figure, her power and strength, he’d decided she was the only woman for him. A fitting partner and a good match.

But it had finally sunk in that Jenny didn’t see the same in him. She tolerated him, she was friendly and polite, but she had never encouraged his overtures. That scene in the street when she made her declaration had hammered it home: his attention was unwanted. He’d become a pushy, selfish, entitled bastard who ignored a lady’s feelings for the sake of his own.

It wasn’t a good look on him.

Jenny East had no intention of becoming Jenny Hawk — but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else in town who would actually enjoy his attention. Maybe he hadn’t looked closely enough at the other available women in town. Might be there was someone else just as fine and impressive, someone who would reciprocate, who’d suit him even better than Jenny…

Setting aside his empty glass, Bram rolled his sore shoulders and got back to work.


	41. Chapter 41

“We already sell thirty different kinds of fabric,” George said waspishly. He glared at the potato he was peeling rather than her.

“No, we sell twenty-two different kinds of fabric,” Celeste said from her seat across the kitchen table. “The other eight haven’t sold in months.”

“Then pick out eight replacements, not eighteen.”

“I asked Blythe—”

“So you’re discussing my business with other people before you discuss it with me?”

“ _Please_ stop interrupting me. Did no one ever teach you it was rude to talk over a lady?”

“Ladies, yes. Whatever you are? No.”

“If that was supposed to be an insult, it was weak tea. You can do better than that.” When he said nothing, she went on: “Blythe agreed with me that these selections would be popular. You not only need to offer a good variety to the customers, you need to give them something fresh and new once in a while, too. Sales stagnate when people see the same thing day in and day out, something they’ve already purchased three or four times in as many years.”

She flipped through the catalogue before her; he continued to peel potatoes for the dinner dish of au gratin. “Lotte tells me Hazeldine’s been growing steadily the last ten years. More people from Outside are settling here. Families are having children that stay rather than venture Out. As the town grows, Godfrey’s Goods should, too.”

Despite the decided lack of reaction, Celeste continued doggedly. “From what I see, you’ve enough money to take a few risks. If we expand the stock, maybe even rent that abandoned space that used to be the chandler’s for excess storage, the store could really blossom in ways that would help the entire community. Trust me on this.”

“I don’t trust you on anything,” he muttered, still refusing to meet her eyes.

Sighing, she rubbed at her temple. He stood to dump the large pile of potato skins — how did he manage to peel them in one long, curly strip? — into the wastebasket and she glanced at the opened cookbook lying on the table. Next to the printed recipe, something was scrawled in the margins in spidery black ink. She reached out to flatten the curved page—

_“That’s it! Perfect! You know, some witches say that if you peel an apple like this, and throw the peel over your left shoulder, it’ll spell out the name of your soulmate.”_

_“Is that true?”_

_“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never tried it before. Maybe it works with potato peels, too? The French call them ‘apples of the earth’, after all. Here, let’s try it—”_

Celeste sat up sharply, pulling her hand from the book.

What on _earth_ was happening? Last night, she saw a cottage and strange woman. Now, she was seeing a _different_ woman and a small boy in this kitchen — but it wasn’t quite the same kitchen.

There were bouquets of dried flowers hanging over the sink. Bubbling pots sitting on the stove. A pale green cloth spread over the table, the edges embroidered with daisies. The woman was pale and frail, almost bird-like, with a high widow’s peak and dark eyes. The boy was six, maybe seven, with the same brown eyes and a gap in his smile from a missing baby tooth. The woman’s voice had been so soft and warm, the boy’s piping in that way of pre-adolescent children. There had been a great sense of, well, _love_ , in the moment. And they were somehow familiar…

As George turned from the sink with a pot of water, Celeste looked up. Into those dark brown eyes.

“…What was your mother like?” she asked. Her attempt at a casual tone failed utterly; the words rang too sharply in her own ears.

He set the pot down with a dull _thunk_. The table quivered. “I don’t share private details like that with people I don’t trust,” he said, already rough voice sinking into a deeper octave. He pressed his palms flat on the table and leaned forward, looming over her.

“If you want trust, or respect, or for me to believe anything that comes out of your mouth, you need to come clean. I know you’ve been lying to me. Tell me the truth, and maybe I’ll start trusting you.”

A prickling flush spread up her chest, cresting over the collar of her dress to darken her face. He glared down at her with such forceful emotion, with a frustration and anger that she had seen on many men’s faces before, as he crowded into her space, tried to dominate her, and yet…

She wasn’t afraid that he’d strike her.

Why was she suddenly so certain he was all bluff and no intent? That, like a black bear, he was charging at her now because _he_ was the one who was worried and alarmed? He was making this demand of her because the suspicion was like a thorn in his paw; he needed it removed.

Was it possible that George Godfrey _wanted_ to trust her?

This felt like a turning point — an opportunity to finally sway him into letting down his guard. “Fine,” she said irritably. “Fine, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“…I’m waiting,” he growled as Celeste’s brain scrambled for coherency. She had to mix the right balance. Say what she could without making it obvious that she was leaving gaps between the facts.

“…I came here under false pretenses,” she said. “I lied to your father, in my letters. I… I’m not originally from Nevada. I’m from New York. I have no Uncle Amos or Cousin Thomas. I’m an orphan. I spent most of my life working in factories, making cans and bottles. And…”

Celeste took a deep breath and visibly braced herself. “I’ve been married before. I’m actually a widow.”

The shadow cast over her receded. She looked up from her clenched hands to watch George settle into his chair, the thunderous suspicion replaced by a thoughtfulness that furrowed his broad forehead.

“Why the lies?”

“People out here have poor opinions of city folk, especially city folk from the North. I didn’t want anyone to think I was weak or lazy or too soft. As for the rest… I know plenty of men don’t want anything to do with widows. We’re used, damaged goods,” she said with a dash of bitterness and a cynical smile. “When a man puts an ad out for a wife, he wants someone fresh and unspoiled. Someone who hasn’t been owned by another man.”

For a moment, Celeste would’ve sworn George looked pained. Upset, saddened even, with her words.

“Any man who thinks that is a fool,” he said. “A wife isn’t property to be owned, or an object to use. And for all of my father’s faults, he wasn’t a fool. Your being a widow wouldn’t have bothered him at all.”

“But how was I to know that?” She didn’t often like to play the damsel in distress card, but George was already looking at her with a new softness, not the typical annoyance that had seemed to be permanently stamped on his craggy features. “And I badly wanted to leave Carson City. I needed a fresh start.”

“Because of your last husband?”

Patrick Garrett had been her last husband. He’d had a reputation for hiring young, poor women as maids, seducing them, then abandoning them when they became pregnant. One of the girls, barely seventeen, had broken down into tears while confiding in her: there had been no seduction in her case, only brutal force.

Celeste had promptly set about snaring him with the story that she was an heiress — it was known in town that his farm was struggling to meet the demands of his creditors — and played the empty-headed ninny to the hilt. The cretin proposed to her within a week, they had married in two, and by the end of the month he was dead of an unfortunate accident. As soon as she was able, she put the farm up for sale and hired a lawyer to make sure whatever proceeds came from the transaction would be dispersed to the three women (she knew of) who had been harmed by the bastard.

It hadn’t been as smooth a killing as she would have liked. Typically, she spiked a glass of tea, they would collapse dead, and she’d clean up the cups before rushing frantically for the nearest doctor, who would confirm the signs of a seizure or stroke: foam around the mouth, burst capillaries in the eyes, the stiffening of the extremities and muscles.

With Patrick, she had been forced to deviate when he tried to pin her against the stove to enjoy his “husbandly entitlements”. She protested coyly, insisting that dinner would burn. Tried to distract him with the offer of a glass of beer (dosed with a sizable amount of sedative, as she had done several times before).

But when he wouldn’t be deterred, when his hand closed around her throat, she had to pull down a cast-iron skillet from the overhead rack and bash him above the ear. It had taken thirty minutes to stage the scene and make it look as though he’d fallen down the stairs — a crumpled rag carpet at the top landing, boot scuffs along the steps and wall, broken balusters in the railing — and another twenty to properly compose herself and hide the reddened marks on her neck beneath a lacy kerchief.

“He wasn’t a good man,” she said, letting some of the rage she’d felt when he grabbed her bleed onto her face.

“I’m sorry.” And he was; for a man uncomfortable with emotion, George was extremely bad at hiding his own.

“Thank you. …Well, now you know. I apologize for not explaining earlier—”

“I understand why you wouldn’t want to openly declare those details. I can’t blame you for wanting to pretend nothing had happened. For trying to start fresh with a clean slate. I’m sorry if I’ve reawakened memories you’d rather forget.” He looked downright ashamed. “And I’m sorry if I’ve ever frightened you. I know I have a tendency to bellow and yell, but I would never lay a hand on you, Miss Preston. …Mrs. Preston?”

“Preston is my maiden name,” she said. “…But perhaps you should just call me Celeste.”

That surprised him. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Then it’s only fair for me to extend the same courtesy and ask you to call me George.”

“If you’re sure?”

He nodded.

The sound of chattering voices downstairs intruded on the awkward silence. Celeste picked up her catalogue and stood. “I should go help Ianto with the customers. Let you finish preparing dinner.”

She hurried out of the room. It had played out perfectly — he obviously saw her in a better light; would surely let her draw even closer — and yet she was bitterly disappointed, not glad.

It was clear to her now that George Godfrey was a decent man. A little rough and uncouth, yes, with a bad temper and a sharp tongue. But a man who would apologize like that, who saw women as people rather than possessions, who treated someone like Ianto with consideration and respect, didn’t deserve her attentions. She had wasted weeks on the wrong man. She wouldn’t accomplish anything staying here.

At the store, or in Hazeldine — she’d met almost everyone who called this place home, had listened carefully to the gossip that flew thick and free at every corner, and there didn’t seem to be a single man in need of killing. A few could stand to give their wives a bit more attention, and some were clueless or awkward. But as a whole, the people of Hazeldine were unusually decent.

Perhaps she needed to start planning her next stop. It had been years since she’d been to California, and San Francisco was a large city full of bad men…

But the thought of moving again made her queasy. She _liked_ this bizarre town and its odd people. She liked working in the store. She was comfortable here in a way that she’d never been comfortable before. Waking every morning knowing she might see something magical or impossible was exciting. If she left, she’d never see Lotte or Jenny again, Josie or Blythe, Hildy or Greer.

George or Ianto…

She stepped past a cluster of women chatting over the preserves and around the diminished pile of feed bags — Mr. Tran had picked up four just before lunch — and blinked. Ianto was sitting behind the counter on his stool, as usual, but there was something significantly different about him.

He felt her stare and glanced over with a crooked smile. “Miss Avonlea made it for me,” he said. “Pretty, isn’t it?” 

And again, Celeste felt that door in her heart swing wide open. He was so pleased, so unashamed, to be sitting there where anyone could see him, a grown man wearing a flower crown made by a little girl. Replace the worn shirt and patched trousers with a green robe, and he’d look like a woodland spirit. Give him some pipes and he’d be Pan, an earthy god of nature. The effect was somehow both sweetly wholesome and wildly tantalizing. 

“Very pretty,” she smiled. “Where’s the little troublemaker now?”

“Sitting with the Captains.”

Celeste glanced through the window and saw Avonlea perched in Jean-Roberts lap, chattering around a lollipop tucked into one cheek while the old man braided frizzy strands of her hair. The girl looked up and beamed at her, promptly wriggling down.

“Miss Celeste,” she shouted, scooping something from the promenade and bouncing through the door. “I made you one, too! With buttercups to match your hair!”

“Oh, thank you so much.” Celeste bent low so she could set the slightly wilted flower wreath on her head. “It’s lovely.”

“ _Ma petite_ , get back here and let me finish that braid,” Jean-Roberts called, and Avonlea ran out with a polite, “Yessir!”

“If you need any assistance, ladies, let me know,” Celeste said to the women in the back, who all waved and murmured in assent before resuming their conversation. Dropping the catalogue on the counter, she sank into the chair beside Ianto’s stool, adjusted the flowers encircling her forehead, and sighed.

No, she did not want to leave Hazeldine.

But how could she stay, knowing there was so much work she should be doing Outside? How could she let herself have a settled life when Sibyl had been denied that?

“Something wrong, miss?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been busy as a bee all day, rushing here and there. All of a sudden, you’ve gone quiet and still. Is there anything I can do to help?”

_No, because you’re part of the problem_ , she thought sadly, even as she fixed a reassuring smile on her face. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I’ll be fine once I catch my second wind.”

The door swung open again and Yvonne walked in, reporter’s notebook in hand. “Jenny tells me you’ve got huge plans for Godfrey’s Goods,” she said by way of greeting.

“Hello, Yvonne. It’s nice to see you back to full speed,” Celeste said. “Feeling one hundred percent again?”

“More or less,” she said airily. “Now, would you care to make a statement for the record? I’ve got to write a piece on today’s work on Main Street before five o’clock to meet my deadline.”

“All I’ll say at this point is that Godfrey’s Goods will soon have a wider selection and a new look.”

“That won’t fill even an inch of space,” Yvonne sighed as she scribbled. “You can’t elaborate _at all_? What are some of the new items you’ll be stocking? Are your prices changing? Will the renovations require you to close at all? What sort of timetables are you looking at?”

“Nothing has been ordered yet, I have no idea, possibly, and nothing has been decided,” Celeste ticked off on her fingers.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Celeste smiled sweetly.

“Well, the moment you actually have something useful for me, something I can turn into a story, please share,” the reporter said, and left without a farewell.

“She doesn’t let anything slow her down for long, does she?” Celeste said, wishing she had half as much energy.

“No. It’s good to see her like her old self again,” Ianto said earnestly. “Is the sheriff any closer to finding out who tampered with her tea?”

“Last I heard, no,” said Celeste slowly, thoughtful.

Her previous conclusion — that no one in Hazeldine needed killing — may not have been entirely accurate. Whoever had poisoned Yvonne had come within inches of becoming a murderer, and Celeste could imagine no motive good enough to excuse that.

Someone in town may deserve a sip of _her_ tea after all…


	42. PART TEN - LACE GLOVES & BERGAMOT

**P A R T T E N — L A C E G L O V E S & B E R G A M O T**

George layered potato slices in the baking dish and silently berated himself. He was a coarse, uncivilized, selfish bastard. He’d all but threatened to hurt the woman — she had every right to slap him, quit on the spot, and walk away without another word. He wasn’t entitled to her past just because she worked for him. He’d forced her to confide in him, and now he was deeply ashamed of himself.

Was that any way to treat another person, especially a lady?

Her husband had “not been a good man,” and he could infer plenty into that vague generalization. Had he beat her? Belittled her? Destroyed things precious to her? The thought of anyone striking her in anger both infuriated and sickened him.

Worse still: had he, with all of his shouting and abrupt movements, reminded her of that sorry excuse for a husband?

_That_ thought appalled him. Small wonder she was always so prickly and sharp with him.

This sudden change in perspective of Celeste Preston had produced a titanic ache in both his head and his chest. He poured two doses of his headache powder into a glass and drank it down without pause for breath.

Setting the glass in the sink, he picked up the cookbook to consult the recipe a final time. His thumb caressed his mother’s shaky marginalia; the recommendation that substituting sour cream for the called-for milk made for a thicker, tangier sauce.

…She’d asked about his mother. That had sparked his impatient demand.

Why had Celeste gone from arguing her case for a larger stock to suddenly asking what his mother had been like?

He mixed the cheese sauce, poured it over the potatoes, and added the topping of seasoned breadcrumbs. Slid the dish into the heated oven, made a note of the time, and wiped his hands clean on a towel.

When he opened the staircase door, a veritable flock of housewives looked up and blinked at him.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, dipping his head.

“Afternoon, Mr. Godfrey,” they said in near unison, curious eyes following him as he walked on.

Belatedly, he realized he’d neglected to take off his apron. No wonder they were staring at him so avidly.

Ianto and Celeste looked up as he approached the counter, and he was momentarily thrown by the unexpected sight of them both with daisies and clover in their hair like a pair of woodland nymphs. Side-by-side, they were an almost perfect yin-and-yang: male and female, dark and light, shy and assertive. “Er…”

“Avonlea Reynolds has been making flower crowns,” Celeste said. “…I bet she’d make one for you, too, if you asked nicely.”

“Don’t think I’m a flower crown sort of man,” George said awkwardly. “Celeste, could I have just a bit more of your time?”

“Of course.”

“Ianto, do you mind if we step into your storeroom?”

“Not at all.”

George half-closed the door behind them, leaving a sizable gap for propriety’s sake. “You asked about my mother.”

“…Yes. I—”

“After everything you’ve told me, you deserve an answer. She was the kindest, sweetest woman who ever lived. Patient, considerate, encouraging. She loved books and food, and made sure I had a healthy appetite for both. She was so understanding and open — no question was forbidden. She always wanted to travel and see the world we read about, but her health wouldn’t allow it, so every night before bed we imagined we were off on adventures as treasure hunters, explorers, royalty. She was the best, brightest thing I’ve ever had in my life.”

Celeste was at a loss for words. The initial surprise from the unexpected outpouring shifted into a poignant softness on her face, a hint of tears in her brown eyes. “You’re lucky,” she murmured. “To have had such a wonderful mother.”

“I know. I’ll always be grateful. I’ll always miss her.”

Celeste took a deep, steadying breath. “…I asked about her because… I think I saw her.”

His pulse was suddenly audible in his ears. “What do you mean?”

“When I touched the cookbook. Her handwriting on the page. This image popped into my head, of you and her peeling potatoes. You were just a boy. She told you about the apple peel trick. That the French call potatoes ‘apples of the earth’.”

He stared at her, the memory flooding to the front of his mind. “…I remember. Good Lord…”

“And last night, when Ianto offered me a hand to stand up, I saw a thatched cottage. I think it was his home in Wales, and it was _his_ mother coming to the doorway.” Celeste shook her head, bewildered. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“You don’t have to answer this,” he prefaced carefully, “but how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven. I didn’t lie about that.”

“Before Miss Gruben took over the school, Hazeldine’s teacher was a Mrs. Lowenthal. She raised Blythe Carlyle after her mother ran off,” George said. “…I think you should ask Mrs. Carlyle about her.”

“That’s cryptic.”

“I don’t mean to be, but Mrs. Carlyle will be able to answer your questions better than I can. Take the rest of the afternoon off if you’d like. Just… trust me.”

Celeste nodded slowly. “…Alright. I’ll be back before dinner.”

***

Blythe straightened with a pin in her mouth as Celeste walked into her shop. “Hello,” she said, sticking it into the dummy beside her. “Finally going to let me make you a dress out of that emerald satin?”

“Not today. Is that the red you bought this morning?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You certainly don’t waste any time,” Celeste said, admiring the dress she was constructing around the dummy’s curves. “A rush order?”

“It needs to be finished by the lighting up ceremony.”

“Then I won’t distract you for long. Um, Mr. Godfrey sent me over here.”

“What does he need?”

“He told me to ask you about Mrs. Lowenthal.”

Blythe blinked. “…Why?”

“I don’t know why. I told him that I’ve been… seeing odd things. From the past.”

“Ohhh,” Blythe said, the cloud of confusion clearing. “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven — and _why_ is that important?”

“Because most psychics don’t come into their power until their mid-twenties.”

“…Psychics?” Celeste echoed faintly.

“Here, sit down,” Blythe urged, pulling a chair over. “These things you’ve been seeing, do they just appear in your head? Or do you see them after you touch something?”

“The second.”

“Then you’re like Mama. My adoptive mother,” the seamstress clarified. “Mrs. Lowenthal. She was a touch psychic. Her ability manifested when she was twenty-four. At first, it was scattershot and uncontrollable. It came and went without warning. But as she aged, it grew stronger and more reliable. By her thirties, she could control it at will. She could pick up an object, focus on it, and see everything that had ever happened to it.”

“Only objects? What about people?”

“No, she couldn’t receive from people.”

“Because I have. Once. Last night.”

“Have you had any premonitions?”

“Like a sense of what’s about to happen? _Déjà vu_?”

“That’s how some strike, but others come in dreams.”

Unbidden, the sultry fantasies of the past few nights reappeared in her thoughts. “Oh Lord,” she said aloud before reason asserted itself: Ianto wasn’t a monster, George wasn’t a knight, there were no dragons in Hazeldine, and there was no possibility that she’d find herself stranded naked on a tropical island with either man. “I mean, no, I haven’t—”

She stopped herself, uneasy.

There _had_ been another odd dream. Her first night in Hazeldine; the one that had driven her to the bar in search of bourbon, that led to her introduction into the true weirdness of the town. The dream full of ice and blood and fire… “God, I _hope_ I haven’t,” she said fervently.

“If you receive from both inanimate objects and people, if you start having prophetic dreams, it sounds like you’re not just a touch psychic: you might be an oracle.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that — sounds awfully significant.”

“It is. Oracles are psychics who can receive through every channel: the inanimate, the environment, skin-to-skin touch, dreams… Mama came from a very long line of psychics,” Blythe explained. “It’s a gift that runs in families. It’s usually matrilineal, and with each generation it tends to weaken. Oracles are almost always women, and only occur when two psychic bloodlines converge. They’re rare nowadays; witch hunts and slavery wiped out most of the old families. If you _are_ an oracle, then both of your parents must have had the gift, too.”

“I never knew my parents. They either died when I was an infant or they abandoned me. Either way, they must not have been very good psychics.” Celeste looked down at the hands clasped together in her lap. “…Why is this happening _now_?” she said. “Why not seven years ago, before…” She bit her lip to stop herself. “What do I do about this?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t a lot you _can_ do until it develops further,” Blythe said with a rueful smile. “If you find yourself caught up in a vision, try not to panic. Remember that what you’re seeing can’t actually harm you. You’re just a witness, not a participant. Visions end quickly. And it might be a good idea to start wearing gloves — it will be more difficult to receive through touch if there’s a barrier between your skin and the world. In fact… Wait just a moment.”

Blythe hurried from the room and up the stairs to her apartment with a soft swishing of her skirts. Celeste stared blankly at the dressmaker’s dummy until she returned, feeling unmoored once again.

“Here,” the seamstress said, holding out a cedar box.

Celeste took it gingerly, half-expecting another disorienting image to assault her. When nothing happened, she opened it to find several pairs of slightly yellowed lace gloves inside. “Mama went through a _lot_ of gloves; she ordered them in bulk from Outside. Don’t worry — she never used those, so you shouldn’t receive anything from them.”

“Thank you, Blythe,” Celeste said, pulling a pair on. They fit perfectly. “For these, and for the information. It’s going to take some time for it to all sink in…”

“Should you want to talk, I’ll be right here,” Blythe assured. “Mama told me a lot about her gift; just in case I should have it, too, I think. To prepare me. I know nothing about my father, and Outsiders who are drawn to Hazeldine often end up here for a reason. Mama used to say my birth mother came here when she was pregnant with me because I was meant to be born here; that Hazeldine wanted me.”

“That’s both sweet and creepy,” Celeste said.

“Yes, it _is_ a little unsettling,” Blythe agreed readily.

“…Your mama didn’t mind being a psychic?”

“Not at all. She considered it a gift, not a curse. She liked being able to return lost things to the right owners and tell people the forgotten stories behind their family heirlooms.” Blythe smiled in fond remembrance. “I know this won’t sound all that reassuring right now, but in a couple years you’ll be able to fully control this power. Turn it on or off at will. You can choose to never use it again, if that’s what you truly want. …Except the premonitions. I don’t think even oracles can control those.”

_Wonder if Jenny’s “Dreamless Sleep” can block them, too?_ Celeste thought. _Guess I’ll find out…_


	43. Chapter 43

“Heading back to the Pax?” George asked, hands full of dishes, as Celeste stepped toward the kitchen doorway.

“Soon. I just want to finish something downstairs.”

“You’ve done enough today,” he said. “Have an early night for once and get some sleep.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured noncommittally, slipping down the hall.

Sighing, George turned to the sink and handed Ianto a plate. “Once we’re finished, I’d like you to walk her home.”

“Of course. …Something happened today, didn’t it?” the Welshman asked quietly, plunging his hands into the soapy water. The suds came just short of his rolled sleeves.

“She clarified some things. And I realized I’ve been an unmitigated ass.”

“I wouldn’t say unmitigated. …A slight ass, maybe.”

George stared at him. “Did you just say something disparaging?”

“Yes, I think I did.” He scrubbed the rim of a glass with a sponge.

A grin bloomed on George’s face. “Well done. I was beginning to worry you really were a saint.”

“Not even slightly,” Ianto murmured, handing him the rinsed glass to dry. “Do you trust her now?”

“Yes. Should have a while ago. Should’ve realized that if you trusted her, she was trustworthy. You’re a good judge of character.”

_Am_ _I?_ Ianto thought. _Or am I just naïve and gullible, like all Wulvers?_

No, not when it came to Celeste Preston. Every day she’d shown him nothing but kindness. That wasn’t an act. She deserved trust and respect, not to be tarred with the brush of his insecurity.

They finished the dishes. Ianto dried his hands and unrolled his sleeves. “Good night, George.”

“Night, Ianto,” he said, clasping his shoulder as he passed him.

***

The summer solstice was only days away; at this time of the year, at this hour, there was still a ruddy glow burnishing the windows, casting a rosy tinge over the store. “Miss Preston?” Ianto called, scanning the large room and detecting no sign of movement. Yet he caught her vanilla-tinged scent; she clearly hadn’t left yet. It was too strong to be a trace left behind.

As he approached the counter, his ears picked up the steady thump of her heartbeat. His senses weren’t usually this sharp in his human form, but the next full moon was in three nights, and the lines between wolf and man were already beginning to blur.

“Miss Preston?”

She sat in her chair, slumped over the counter beside the till, cheek pillowed on an outstretched arm. An opened catalogue lay before her, items circled in bright red. The wax pencil had fallen from her hand and rolled onto the floor. He picked it up and set it beside the register.

“Let me walk you home,” he said, gingerly touching her arm.

“Mmm, no,” she murmured drowsily, barely stirring. “Stay here…”

Lord, but she was beautiful. Her pale hair looked like molten gold in the heavy light, curling wisps framing her smooth face like delicate calligraphy. Even in her plain, practical brown dress she was a gilded portrait. Of an angelic herald, perhaps, who had delivered her appointed message and now slept in sacred peace.

He stood transfixed. Her heartbeat sank into a deeper, slower cadence, the rhythm hypnotic. The light faded around them.

Ianto finally came back to his senses when purple and blue shadows began to stretch across the floor. Celeste was soundly asleep; it felt criminal to wake her now. But he couldn’t leave her in that hard, uncomfortable chair all night... 

Gnawing the inside of his cheek, he made a decision.

Gingerly, he slid an arm beneath her knees, the other encircling her back. She rolled readily toward him as he lifted her from the chair. With a soft sigh, she pressed her face to the crook of his shoulder, hot exhalation tickling his skin. A gloved hand clasped the front of his shirt. She was soft and pliant and heavy in his arms, tangibly solid.

He had to take a deep, steadying breath before he could straighten and carry her to the storeroom.

Slowly, gently, he knelt and lowered her onto his pallet-like bed. When he drew his arms out from beneath her and tried to pull away, he found himself momentarily trapped — Celeste refused to let go of his shirt, and he was forced to carefully unhook the fabric from her lace-covered fingers. Arranging her skirts demurely around her legs, he unknotted her boots, set them aside, and pulled the quilt over her, tucking it in at her sides. After a moment’s hesitation, he brushed the loose strands of hair from her cheek and behind her ear with a ghostly caress of his fingertips.

Satisfied she was as comfortable as possible, he took off his own boots, settled into a chair, and closed his eyes. Neither the man nor the wolf expected to sleep, but at least he could make the attempt rather than stare at her all night like a hungry beast…

***

Celeste woke in slow stages.

First came the awareness of a strong green scent. Something like bergamot and moss, an earthiness mixed with clean soap. She’d smelled it before, but never to this extent. It was all around her, like a warm cocoon. A soothing smell…

Next was the realization that she was still wearing a dress and petticoat, the buttons and laces constrictive and uncomfortable. Why hadn’t she changed into her usual loose nightgown?

Then came the certainty that she wasn’t in her bed at the Pax. The mattress’ lumps were in the wrong spots. The quilt had a different texture.

Finally, Celeste opened her eyes to see tall stacks of boxes and canisters lining the opposite wall. A crate turned upside down to convert it into a makeshift nightstand. A small pile of neatly folded clothes.

A man’s clothes.

Slowly, mouth dry, she rolled over, expecting to see a familiar face resting on the pillow next to her.

Instead, she found it several feet away. Ianto sat slumped in a chair well out of reach, legs stretched before him, chin tucked into his folded arms. He was fully dressed save for his boots.

Celeste was shocked to discover she was disappointed.

If they hadn’t…

Well, better to not imagine _what_ they hadn’t, but if they _hadn’t_ , what was she doing here in his bed? She remembered dinner. Paging through another catalogue. Feeling very, very drowsy. And… that was all.

She sat up and pushed the quilt aside. Judging by the light streaming through the unshuttered window and her fairly reliable internal clock, it was still very early. Perhaps just after dawn. She reached for her boots, glancing back at Ianto.

_That can’t have been comfortable_ , she thought with a twinge of guilt. _Spending all night in a hard wooden chair_.

He certainly didn’t look all that relaxed — most faces smoothed out in sleep, but not Ianto’s. There was a deep furrow between his black eyebrows. His lips were pressed together into a narrow line of displeasure. He looked like a man in the middle of an argument, who had heard something appalling and was now poised to retort.

Abandoning her boots, she crawled across the bed and reached out for his knee.

Ianto didn’t wake in stages. He went from asleep to aware in an instant, eyes flashing open so quickly it startled her. Huge black pupils contracted to miniscule pinpoints in the bright light, the shift all the more dramatic with his pale irises.

“Sorry,” she murmured, sitting back on her heels. “Didn’t mean to wake you so abruptly.”

He blinked at her, drawing in his legs and reaching up to rub a hand over his face. “No, no, you’re fine,” he said. “I was having an unsettling dream.”

“You, too?” she mumbled wryly.

“You didn’t sleep well?” he asked, conscientious.

“Oh, no — I mean, yes, I slept fine last night,” she said. “I’ve just been… having strange dreams… lately…” Celeste rubbed her gloved palms against her skirt. “…How did I get here?”

“You fell asleep at the counter,” he said. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. So I brought you here, where you’d be more comfortable. I’m sorry, I overstepped—”

“Don’t be sorry,” she stopped him. “It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while. _I’m_ sorry, for stealing your bed and making you spend all night in an uncomfortable chair. That was very chivalrous of you.”

“It was just the right thing to do,” he said.

“Even so: thank you. I’m grateful. Plenty of men would have seized the opportunity to take advantage.”

Something indefinable rippled across Ianto’s face, sharpening his features. His entire body stiffened, as if he was straining against a powerful urge to move. The reaction went unheeded by Celeste, who had turned away to pull on her boots. “I’ll get back to the Pax to wash up and change, have some breakfast. Let you have your bed back for an hour or two. And if you need a nap later, I’ll happily keep an eye on things.” She climbed to her feet and straightened her wrinkled dress. “Thank you again,” she said.

The door clicked shut behind her. Ianto unfurled his clenched hands, claws drawing free of the palms they had punctured, the punctures smoothing into unmarred flesh almost instantly.

The casual way she had spoken of men taking advantage, as if she knew from experience… The wolf inside had strained against its fetters, demanding to be freed in order to tear into the one responsible. It was the closest he had ever come to a killing rage.

Yesterday, she and George had talked. She’d “clarified things,” and afterwards George saw her in an entirely new light; had felt like an ass for the way he had treated her.

What had she told him?

***

The front door of the Pax was locked.

Of course it would be; it was barely five in the morning. The saloon wouldn’t be open for business for hours.

Good thing Wint no longer needed to sleep. The ghost had the door unlocked and swinging open before Celeste could finish a second knock. “I was worried about you, missy,” he said. “I was ready to go lookin’ for you, tether be damned, but Lot was sure you were fine.”

“Thank you, Wint, that was sweet of you,” Celeste smiled, striding toward the staircase. “And, as you can see, Lotte was right. As always.”

She was halfway to the second floor when the door to Lotte and Rosanna’s suite opened and the former stepped out to look up at her, in the process of buckling a thick leather belt around her blue dress. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No, I don’t,” Celeste retorted blithely. “I forgot my watch yesterday.”

“Fun-ny,” Lotte said, following close on her heels as she entered her room. “You’re not getting out of an explanation.”

“There isn’t much to explain.” Celeste opened her wardrobe and considered the three clean dresses she had to choose from. “I pushed myself a little too hard yesterday and ended up falling asleep at the counter after dinner. That’s it.”

“That’s it? Honestly?”

“Honestly. What did you _think_ happened?”

“Something that would require a cup or two of Yu Jie’s Number Twelve tea today,” Lotte said frankly, referring to the anti-conception brew on the Jade and Pearl’s menu.

Celeste yanked a dress off its hanger and turned to glare at her. “Who’s running the wagers on that scenario?”

“Seung,” was the calm, and expected, reply. “Two-to-one odds on Ianto; ten-to-one odds on George Godfrey.”

With short, sharp movements, Celeste sat on the edge of her bed and began unlacing her boots. “I’ve tried to be understanding,” she muttered, eyes stinging. “Tried to see this town’s obsession with gambling on every little thing as just a harmless hobby. Something to pass the time. But betting on who sleeps with who? It’s crude and vulgar and appalling. And invasive in the worst way. Tell Seung that he’s to give everyone their money back. And tell everyone who gave him that money that they should be ashamed of themselves.”

“Sweetie, take a deep breath,” Lotte said gently, sitting beside her. “I agree that it’s in extremely poor taste, and I’ll absolutely give Seung and the rest a good tongue-lashing for it. But… Are you sure this isn’t a ‘protesting too much’ reaction?”

“What?” Celeste stared at her, bewildered.

“It’s a line from Shakespeare: ‘Methinks she doth protest too much.’ What I mean is: are you upset about the betting itself, or are you upset because you’re having a hard time coming to terms with how you feel? About Ianto, or George — or both of them?”

Celeste looked away. “…It’s complicated,” she said. “Honestly, it’s a mess.”

“Want to talk about it?”

She sighed heavily. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Then I won’t push,” Lotte said, rubbing her back. “Just know that I’m ready to listen whenever you’re ready to talk. And I swear that I won’t tell another soul, not even Rosanna.”

“Thank you, Lotte.”

“I’ll let you freshen up. What should I tell Ma to make for breakfast? Hotcakes?”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Clean dress, chemise, petticoat, and towel in hand, Celeste padded barefoot down the hall to the communal lavatory. Locking the door behind her — she was currently the only overnight resident at the Pax, but it was an ingrained habit — she undressed quickly. Sweeping aside the floor-length shower curtain, she stepped into the bathtub, stood in front of the tall showerhead, reached for the water taps—

And stopped. The unbound hair around her face smelled of bergamot. Of Ianto, she realized. His scent had transferred to his pillowcase and sheets, and now onto her. She cupped her hair in her hands and breathed deeply. The lingering traces of anger and tension slipped away like melting ice.

Celeste stepped out of the tub and went to the sink. She wasn’t quite ready to wash that scent away completely.


	44. PART ELEVEN - HYDROTHERAPY

**P A R T E L E V E N — H Y D R O T H E R A P Y**

“I should be going. I volunteered to help string the wires today.”

“Mmmh, but it is early,” Hildy murmured, catching his wrist and pulling him back into the bed. “Stay another hour. Or two…”

“Not sure I can afford to.”

“Nonsense. I still owe you for the bathtub repairs,” the madame insisted, rising to kiss him.

“You do not,” Hideo Kaneshiro chuckled, but he deepened the kiss regardless. Pressed Hildy against the sturdy, tall headboard, his thickset body sliding heavily over hers.

Hildy liked all of her customers to varying degrees — she wouldn’t take their money or entertain them if she didn’t — but she had an especial soft spot for Hideo.

Hazedine’s plumber and a fine watercolor artist, he was, at first glance, a remarkably ugly man. His features were rough and knobby, skin leathery and mottled, dark eyes half-buried in crow’s feet and drooping bags. His body was stocky and as far from graceful as one could get; he was barrel-chested and broad shouldered, yes, but fat rather than muscular. The belly that drooped over his belt was almost perfectly spherical. Noticeably bow-legged with splayed feet, he walked like a duck, in a shuffling and swaying gait. And he always — rain or shine, hot or cold, even in bed — wore a stiff and unflattering round black cap secured with a ribbon tied tightly beneath his chin. His finest physical features were his hands, long-fingered and remarkably strong, and his crooked smile.

When Hideo smiled, he became, as the French would say, _joli laid_. Ugly in a way that attracted rather than repelled. His smile revealed the man inside, who was kind and sweet-tempered and creative, and he smiled often.

Hildy thought him one of the most appealing men she had ever met. Over the years, she’d often lamented that he hadn’t settled down with an equally lovely wife to have at least a half dozen children — Hideo was so good with children, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d be a fantastic father.

But he was reluctant to pursue anyone romantically. “I’m a hideous old man,” he once told Hildy as they sipped rice wine, “with strange, unappetizing habits. Not good husband material. The ladies have far more attractive prospects to choose from in town.” He spoke without recrimination or sadness, merely stating the obvious facts.

Even so, physical beauty was nothing compared to a good heart, and Hildy knew there were plenty of ladies who would easily see past the surface if Hideo would only let them.

And, as she herself could attest, the man was far from clumsy or awkward in bed. Not to mention significantly well endowed…

Hildy shivered as his hands gripped her inner thighs, spreading her legs wide beneath him. Few of her customers were as forceful as Hideo, and she reveled in the way he manhandled her without hesitation.

One hand slid up her already slick skin. Long, skillful fingers traced along the pink folds of her sex, rubbing and caressing until she panted and squirmed. The forefinger slid inside to stroke with unyielding assurance, to curve and sweep, while his thumb rolled lightly on her clitoris.

“Oh, _bitte_ ,” she whimpered, arching against his hand.

A second finger, then a third…

She was on the verge of release when his hand pulled away to again clutch her leg, holding her open and steady as he thrust sharply up, seeking the spot he knew from familiarity would make her shout with abandon. His cock filled her completely, stretching her very nearly to the point of pain.

Hildy moaned raggedly. Clung to his shoulders as his hips swayed and bucked. Each movement threatened to overwhelm, even with her vast experience. There was a hand kneading her breast — her hardened nipple pinched between two fingers — and another clasping her backside, massaging the soft flesh as every sensitive nerve sang trilling arias.

Panting, she pressed her thighs against his hips, hooking her ankles together. The next pump drove his cock straight to her center, pinning her to the bed. She writhed and whimpered beneath him, breasts bobbing as she gasped for breath.

Hideo kissed her again, with a sweetness that belied the pounding force of his hips, as he thrust and plunged into her, with quickening speed and ferocity, unrelenting even as she shuddered violently around him and combusted with a tremulous cry. He maintained the demanding pace until he, too, lost every shred of control with a hot burst and slumped to the side groaning, dazed and breathing hoarsely.

“This was an awful idea,” he huffed several minutes later.

“How so?” she asked once sensation had returned to her lips.

“Now I’ve got nothing left to give for the light up work.”

“Guess you just have to stay a bit longer… Recover your strength…”


	45. Chapter 45

Caleb was adding burnt umber with his tiniest, most delicate horsehair brush, the tip of his tongue tucked at the corner of his mouth with concentration, when the bronze bell over the door rang. He looked up nonchalantly, expecting a customer, only to do a nearly comical double-take.

“Mrs. Carlyle!” He straightened on his stool and quickly set aside his paintbrush. “Uh, good morning! Did you need some stamps?”

“Not today. I wasn’t sure if you’d be open or not… I thought you might be helping with your father’s electrical project,” she clarified, approaching the counter.

“Pa asked me not to. He’s still worried about my side.”

“Is it still paining you?” she asked, eyebrows pinching together with concern.

“Only a little twinge now and then. He likes to err on the side of caution when it comes to my health, ever since the accident.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. And you should take care of yourself.” Suddenly awkward, she glanced down rather than meet his gaze, eyes landing on the opened tin of oil paints by his hand. “…What are you working on?”

“Uh, well...” He belatedly curved an arm around a small square of canvas. “It’s a poem I’m illuminating. I was… It’s a surprise. For your birthday. Something that will last longer than flowers.”

Blythe looked up, eyes wide. It had been years since she’d last celebrated her birthday; years since she’d gotten a present.

Except…

Since Tyler had passed, every June 28th, she would come down to open her shop and find a bouquet of wildflowers, their stems wrapped in ribbon, lying in front of the door. There was never a note, and she never caught a glimpse of anyone hurrying away. Every year, she put them in a tall vase and enjoyed their brightness for three days, until the blooms withered and wilted. The ribbons went into her sewing basket, to be used as trim on dresses, or were given to the little girls whose mothers came to discuss designs, to be tied into bright bows at the ends of pigtails and braids.

Had Caleb Rutledge just unwittingly confessed to leaving those bouquets?

“Oh,” she said faintly, feeling lightheaded and flushed. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Actually,” she pushed on doggedly, “that’s why I stopped in today. I mean, not that _exactly_. Your artistic talent in _general_. Goddess, I’m not saying this right.”

“It’s alright,” Caleb assured. “You’re making more sense than Pa in the middle of one of his brainstorms.”

“Thank you. What I’m trying to say is: I was hoping to hire you.”

“Hire me?”

“To illustrate a mail order catalogue for me,” she said quickly. “And design a fancy letterhead. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and yesterday, when I saw the catalogues Miss Preston has at Godfrey’s Goods, I decided it was time to give it a serious try. I’ll start small, of course, more of a pamphlet than a full catalogue, offering a dozen or so different designs. Send them to a few of the bigger cities. Maybe place some ads in newspapers. Wait a couple months and see if anything comes of it. I spoke with Mr. Hawk last night, and he’s willing to print them. Black and white for the initial run, but if I start getting orders he could try printing with color, or maybe it could be added by hand. …What do you think?”

The slow, wide smile that spread across his face warmed her down to her toes. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, and I’d be honored to be a part of it. When can I start?”

***

“Goddess, it feels like August already,” Rosanna said, fanning herself with her hat. “Val, I think you’d better keep Cotton inside today. Don’t want him wandering, with all of the wires and electricity.”

“Sheriff, I know how you feel about meddling with nature,” the deputy beside her said softly. “But I think it’s time we asked Luisa to call up a storm. I’m worried.”

Valentine wasn’t the type to fret; for him to just say the words meant things were awfully serious. “I am, too,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen him this bad before.”

“We wait much longer, and he might not be able to move.” For a moment, stark pain was bright in his eyes.

“Solstice is in five days. It’s not a good idea to stir up the leylines with any wild magic until it’s past. Is there anything we can do to ease the situation until Tuesday?”

Val nodded reluctantly. “It’ll be like slapping a cotton ball on a bullet wound, though.”

“Understood.” She sighed heavily. As sheriff, her job was three-fold: protect the people, uphold the law, and maintain the balance. It was that third task that was always the most difficult… “James told me the farmers have been putting together a formal petition, so it looks like my hands are pretty well tied anyway. I’ll ride out to Luisa’s after lunch, make the deal. ’Til then, I’d better go keep an eye on the work. Josie will be in the kitchen, should you need anything.”

Slapping her hat on, she stepped out of the jail and sauntered off into the blazing mid-morning sunshine.

***

“I’ve been admiring your form.”

Greer looked up with wide eyes. “….Pardon?”

“Your form,” Bram repeated, miming a digging motion. “You’ve got a nice, steady rhythm. You put in just enough effort without wasting any energy.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” she said, driving her shovel into the earth with a thrust of her heel.

Of course he was talking about her digging technique, not her actual figure. Why would a man want to look at her when he could look at Jenny or Liesel or Blythe? Willowy, delicate, gorgeous ladies they could pick up with one hand.

Whereas she — the daughter of a circus strongwoman and a boxer-turned-blacksmith — had been born solid, brawny, and broad-shouldered. Some of her earliest memories were of lifting weights alongside her parents. Her father teaching her how to punch without breaking her own fingers. Balancing her older brother on her shoulders while Mother applauded.

Her size had never bothered her growing up. She liked being as big and strong as the boys at school. She was the one all the other girls turned to when a boy refused to stop teasing. The one the smaller boys went to for advice on how to build muscles or how to talk to the girl they fancied. The one the bigger boys challenged to wrestling matches and tests of might. Her size and strength made her everyone’s friend and protector.

It only became a problem when she started to see all of her old classmates get engaged, get married, have babies. She was everyone’s friend, yes, but nobody’s wife. Everyone assumed she was too strong to need anyone.

Well, she might not _need_ anyone, true.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t _want_ someone.

She didn’t hate her body. Quite the contrary. She loved her muscles and powerful arms. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t flex them so often. She wouldn’t have taken over her father’s forge when he and Mother decided to go back East and help her brother Sergio set up a carnival park in New York. She liked the way she looked, the way she dressed, the way she felt when she exercised. She wouldn’t change any of that for anything, especially not for a man.

But sometimes she couldn’t help but feel bitter. She was gorgeous, and nobody seemed to see it but her. The men of Hazeldine had no idea what they were missing out on.

“Do not waste a minute of your time on any man intimidated by your muscles, _mi amore_ ,” her father had told her in his thick Italian accent. “You are a warrior woman! An Amazon! Any man should thank his lucky stars for you to throw him over your shoulder! I know I did, when your mama carried me off on hers!”

When the Hawks had arrived, she’d hoped that Bram would be the one to finally notice her. Just as brawny and intimidating at first glance, surely he would understand how she felt. He wouldn’t be afraid of her; wouldn’t worry that she’d inadvertently hurt him in a moment of passion.

(And, of course, there was the fact that he was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on. That certainly sweetened her hope.)

But no. Almost immediately he only had eyes for Jenny — not that she could blame him; if she wasn’t so infuriatingly attracted to men, she’d want to marry Jenny herself.

For months, she’d berated herself for her vain, schoolgirl crush. Bram was too smitten with the powerful hedgewitch to ever truly look at her. Longing for him would achieve nothing. She needed to stop mooncalfing and give him up as a lost cause.

“I was wondering if — _erk_!”

“Green Goddess, I’m so sorry!” Greer cried, dropping her shovel. She hadn’t realized Bram was bending next to her when she swung it back — she’d punched him straight in the nose with both the handle and her knuckles. “You’re bleeding, oh shit, did I break it?”

“I dink so,” he said, pinching gingerly. “Ack! Yep. Dat’s a break.”

“I’m _so_ sorry. Here, sit down in the shade. I’ll get Doc, and some ice.”

“No, wait, it’s fine,” he said quickly, grabbing her arm. “Juth pop it back straight for me. Pleathe?”

“You’re sure?” she frowned.

“I’m sure. Do it quick.”

“Alright…” Grimacing, she pressed the cartilage back into alignment with an unpleasant _snick_. Bram winced. “Ugh, that sounded awful. It must’ve felt terrible.”

“Gimme a second… Ah, there,” he said with a relieved sigh. “All better.”

“All better? There’s a fountain of blood running down your face.”

The newspaperman yanked his handkerchief from a pocket and thoroughly wiped his nose and mouth. “…Did I get it all?”

“How are you not still in agony?”

“Shifter, remember? My magic does a pretty good job of healing minor injuries pretty quickly.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling with giddy relief. “Thank the Goddess for that. Again, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was clearly an accident. I shouldn’t’ve been lurking so close while you were that focused. …Am I good?”

“Looks all healed to me. Straight as ever.”

“No, the blood. On my face.”

“Oh! Of _course_ , yes, you look perfect. Again. …What were you about to say?”

“Hmm?”

“Before I broke your nose. What were you saying?”

“Uh, I was… trying to ask you to dinner. At the Pax, or the Jade and Pearl, or at the Pink, whichever you prefer.”

When she broke his nose, had she pushed something into his brain? He, Bram Hawk, couldn’t be asking _her_ , Greer Perdillo, to dinner. Was this all a bizarre dream brought on by sunstroke?

Had someone hit _her_ on the head with a shovel?

“Dinner?” she managed to squeak.

“Yes.”

“…Just you and me?”

“That was my hope.”

She scrambled for a rationalization. “…For an interview? A story for the paper?”

“No. Not for the paper. I thought it would be nice to have a meal together, just the two of us, and maybe… Talk? Get to know each other better? I’ve been here for years and I still don’t know you as well as I would like. And I thought afterwards we might go for a walk? If you’d like?”

Greer stared at him with her mouth hanging open, brain frozen in shock. “…Yes!” she practically shouted when it had thawed enough to reply. “I mean, yes — that sounds lovely. I would love that. Dinner and a walk. Yes. A lovely idea.”

“When would be best for you?”

_Tonight! Tomorrow! Every night for the rest of our lives!_ her frantic brain wanted to shriek; thankfully, there was still a shred of self-preservation left that stopped her tongue. “Uhhh, well, when would be a good night for you?” she said, lofty and formal in a way that made her want to kick herself.

“How does Friday sound?”

“Friday sounds good. Friday sounds great.”

“Great. Six?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it’s a date,” he said with a smile. “…Guess we should get back to work, huh?”

“Yes. Back to work. Definitely,” she mumbled, picking up a shovel like one in a trance. “It’s a date…”


	46. Chapter 46

Valentine emptied another bucket into the tin tub and dragged his forearm across his brow, dislodging the hair clinging to the sweat beading on the skin. Between the midday heat and the effort it had taken to haul twenty-five buckets of well water, he had to be more than halfway to spontaneous combustion.

Not that he’d complain. This was for Web, and he couldn’t begrudge him anything.

Speaking of: where had he wandered to now?

Mopping his face with a kerchief, Val checked the cells.

Empty.

The front office.

Also empty.

Outside, the sun — almost directly overhead, the exact center of a pale blue sky utterly devoid of clouds — cast waves of heat that shimmered on the horizon, undulating up from the hard-packed street like curvaceous dancers. Mr. Rutledge’s work crews had been forced to stop and wait for the temperature to sink to a less hellish level; Val could swear that he heard the ants sizzling as they built a massive hill beside the jail’s entrance.

“Cotton?” he called, squinting. Perhaps he’d gone to the Pax—

No. He was standing by the well, head tilted up and eyes staring directly at the sun, unblinking. Stiff and still in a way no human could hold themselves. A dented bucket dangled from one long hand, the bottom visibly rusted away. He must have found it in the trash heap out back. Through the fog, he’d noticed what his partner was doing and tried to help.

Until the fog thickened again, anyway.

“C’mon, Cotton,” Val said, taking the useless bucket from his unresisting fingers. He wrapped a hand around his forearm. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a bath waiting for you.”

“A bath?” he murmured, eyes still skyward, voice monotone and distant.

“A nice cool one. Let’s go. You’ve had enough sun today.”

Val shut the door behind them. Guided Cotton, compliant enough to being led but shuffling his feet with every step, to the back room.

When he got to this point, Val thought sadly, he was essentially a giant doll. He would stand perfectly still where you left him, for hours if you forgot about him. You could lift one of his arms, pose him like an anatomical dummy, and he wouldn’t lower it until you moved it yourself. At this stage, he wasn’t truly a person any more — he was just a shell waiting for the soul to return.

Valentine wasn’t entirely sure where his mind went on days like this; all he knew was that it pained him every time he watched it happen.

“This’ll perk you up, Web,” he promised as he unbuttoned his partner’s shirt. Gently manipulated his arms to pull the garment off. Unbuckled his belt and let the trousers puddle around his feet. “Sit down on this chair, bud, so I can take off those boots,” he said, as efficient and practical as any nurse with a long-term patient. He knew Cotton’s body as well as he knew his own; this was an old routine they were both accustomed to.

When all of his clothes lay in a discarded pile, Val took both of his hands to steady him. “Step up… There we go…”

As one foot sank into the water, Cotton blinked. The vague glaze in his eyes dissipated slightly, and he swung the second foot into the tub with more energy, actually moving with intention. Sighing with relief, he bent his knees and sat, the water sloshing around his tented legs and rising past his waist with displacement.

Kneeling beside the tub, Val soaked a thick sponge and lifted it above Cotton’s head, squeezing a stream over his shaggy, straw-like hair. These last few weeks, the brown had bleached away to a colorless blond that verged on grey, adding twenty years to the deputy’s appearance.

“Feeling better?” Val asked with a faint smile, dragging the dripping sponge along his shoulders.

“Yeah, a lot better.” Cotton’s voice was creaky and shaky, but it was unmistakably him talking. He was meeting his eyes again, and that was Web looking back at him. He spread his fingers and toes under the water. Took a long, deep breath in that lasted several heartbeats before slowly letting it out.

The water level was now significantly lower.

“Thanks, Val.”

“You know I’ll always look out for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Cotton said. “It shouldn’t be your job. Just because you promised my Ma…”

“Hey now.” Val cupped the back of Cotton’s freckled neck. “I’d take care of you no matter what, promise or no promise. You’re not a burden. You’re my partner.”

Cotton nodded, leaning forward to press his forehead to Val’s.

“The sheriff’s gonna ask Luisa to make a storm, as soon as the solstice passes. You’ll be back to your old self soon, and we can have our long talks again. Play some chess and poker. Sit out at night and count the shooting stars.”

“How’s Ma doing, with this drought?”

“She’s just fine. The warren’s been keeping an eye on her. She’s still sound asleep.”

“Good. That’s good. But then she’s always been hardier than me.”

“It’s not your fault.” Val had said it dozens of times before, every time Cotton struggled, but he knew he’d always have to say it at least one more time, because Web never remembered. “Being like this. You can’t help the way you’re made any more than I can. We just are what we are. …Someday, when your Ma wakes up, we should head Northwest. To the coast. I hear it’s always rainy out there. Foggy and cool. Just the sort of place for you.”

“But this is your home, Val,” Cotton said. “It’s _our_ home. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

“My home is wherever you are, Web. I’ll be happy as long as you’re happy. And if you’re set on staying put, then we will. Why don’t you lay back a bit, hmm? Just sit and soak for a while. I’m gonna get some more water for you. I’ll be right back...”

It took four more trips to the well to refill the tub to its original level. Val sat down, soaked his kerchief, and leaned back against the side of the tub with the wet square resting over his closed eyes. “By Fortuna, it’s a miserable day.”

Blindly, he reached up and met Cotton’s extended hand halfway. With their fingers interlocked, they both sighed and relaxed as much as they could manage, sinking into an uneasy, shared doze.

***

“Can we go over this one last time, just to make sure I understand the process?” asked Yvonne, pencil at the ready.

“Of course,” assured Leland.

“Alright… So: the generator will produce the electricity and power the cables. The cables, connected to the generator, have been wrapped in rubber hosing and are buried underground. They come up at each lamp post, where they’re secured to the wood by brackets, and feed into the lightbulb, which is covered in a glass box to protect it from the elements and amplify the light. The cable then runs down the other side of the post, back under the ground, until it snakes up at the next post. Am I correct so far?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And this electricity will be produced with ‘voltaic piles’?”

“For now, yes, but I’ll be fine-tuning the mechanism frequently in the coming months. At the moment, I’ve great hopes of generating power via kinetic energy.”

“Which is?”

“Movement. Consider a bicycle. To power it, to make it move, you must pedal with your feet. If I can harness and store such energy to produce the heat and light necessary for electricity, the generator could be powered by something rather like a bicycle or a spinning wheel. I’ve already developed a few prototypes, and my gremlins have been very enthusiastic in volunteering to operate them. Perhaps I could schedule a rota of shifts, three or four gremlins at a time, throughout the evening hours.”

Even as he spoke, several of the furry creatures scampered past, tiny hammers in hand. Two wore baskets filled with metal brackets strapped to their backs. Yvonne turned to watch as they shimmied up the nearest pole, grasping the wood with prehensile back feet and reaching to grab the cable held out by Jeb Dunne.

Over the tumult of their signature knocking clicks and burbles, there was a distinctive sound of “hup hup hup!” as some held the black hose flush against the pole and others secured it in place beneath long metal brackets with quick taps of their hammers.

A bemused Eduardo passed up a lamp fixture, lightbulb already in place, and three gremlins held it high and steady while others swarmed around them, feeding in the end of the cable and attaching each wire, before lowering it onto the pole and screwing it tightly into the wood.

“They’re like land piranha,” Eduardo said in awe.

“What’s piranha?” asked Boston Drake.

“Tiny meat-eating fish with sharp teeth that hunt in packs. They live in the Amazon, and can smell a drop of blood in the water from a mile away, like sharks. Just a few can strip flesh down to the bone in seconds. Give them minutes, and they can skeletonize an entire cow.”

“Gee, Ed, thanks for giving me new fodder for my nightmares,” the cowboy said, aghast. “I’ll probably start dreaming of those cute little critters eating people.”

Satisfied that the lamp was in place, the gremlins cheered triumphantly in unison and slid down the pole, rushing on to the next.

“My boys dearly love to work,” Leland said fondly.

“Is it my imagination, or are they starting to talk?” Yvonne asked, eyebrow arched.

“In a fashion, I suppose. I’m in the habit of talking to myself while I’m working, and they’re clever little mimics. Whether they actually understand everything they’re repeating or not is still up for debate.”


	47. Chapter 47

“Phew!” said Matthew Reynolds as he sat down next to Greer. “Sure glad our part’s done. Aren’t you, Miss Greer?”

“Mmm-hmm,” the blacksmith said dreamily, glass of water forgotten in her hand.

“Miss, I was hoping to have a word with you, if I could?”

The teenager’s earnest expression filtered through her daze. She straightened and focused on him. “…Yes?”

“I know you’re a busy lady, and maybe you don’t have the time, but… I was wondering if you might be willing to take me on as your apprentice? See, I don’t really care for farming, not like Robert and Bedford, and I’ve always been real fascinated with what you do. It’s work I think I’d enjoy and be proud of. I promise to do my best, and pay attention, and help you out where I can. I know you can’t teach me the witchery, but—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Greer laughed, patting his knee. “That was quite a speech.”

“I practiced it last night,” he admitted.

“You delivered it beautifully.” She considered the boy for a moment. A little short for his age, a little scrawny, but he certainly had heart and a solid work ethic; the last two days he’d kept pace with the grown men without complaint. He’d put on muscle quickly enough, hammering iron and carrying buckets of water and coal. Just needed a bit more protein in his diet, and she could make sure he had hearty lunches every day. She hadn’t considered taking on an apprentice any time soon, but if he was so eager…

“Alright. I’m game if you are. We’ll start with a trial month and the basics, and see how you feel about continuing. If you’re sure by then, I’ll make you my official apprentice and we can talk about weaving in spellcraft with the metallurgy.”

Matthew was shocked. “But I’m a boy!”

“Doesn’t matter. Anybody can learn witchery,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “It’s just that most witches choose to take on girl apprentices, or pass their knowledge down to their daughters. Outside, ladies have a lot less freedom. Witchery gives them an edge and power they badly need.

“Some magic works better if you’re a lady, sure, but then some magic works better if you’re a man. Or if you’re neither. But most magic doesn’t give a hoot about what you are, so long as you know the right words or steps or ingredients. My Papa’s the one who taught me my witchery; he learned it from his mother, who learned it from her father. Feels right to keep the back-and-forth tradition going.”

“I promise to be the best apprentice ever, miss!” the boy swore ardently, thrusting out his hand with a brilliant grin.

“Then I’ll do my best to be the best mistress in return,” she laughed, shaking it firmly. “We’ll start tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. Alright?”

“Alright!”

***

“The purgatorial heat cost us a couple hours today, slowed us down a mite, but we’ll be done on schedule, mayor,” Leland announced, positively beaming with pride. “Snori’s bringing two of his hogs to help move the primary generator into place after dinner. And Ben here—”

The gremlin standing on the scientist’s shoulder saluted, chest puffed out beneath the tiny red kerchief knotted around his fat neck.

“—will make sure his team gets the secondary generator hooked up tonight. We’ll be able to have the official lighting ceremony tomorrow evening, as planned.”

“Fantastic! Impressive work, as always, Mr. Rutledge.” Mayor Tupelo shook his hand enthusiastically. “Keep this up, and we’ll have to name something after you. The school, perhaps. That seems fitting.”

“Thank you, mayor, but I don’t care much for accolades.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor said in a jovial, carrying tone that would make a carnival barker envious, “for your phenomenal work today and yesterday, dinner and drinks at the Pax are on me!”

A weak cheer and smattering of applause greeted this announcement from those sprawled and panting in the meager shade of the promenade’s awnings. The sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, a cooling breeze was wafting down from the Grandfather, and the heat was nowhere near as ruthless as it had been earlier. But everyone was going to feel bleary and muzzy for a while yet.

_Wonder if Lib will let me use the Pink’s bathtub_ , Bram thought, draining another glass of sweet tea. The thought of taking his usual shower wasn’t nearly as appealing as the possibility of soaking in a huge, cool tub. _Maybe if I grovel…_

The tip of a shadow fell over his outstretched legs. He looked up to find Jenny approaching, the usual basket on her arm. He smiled; a polite smile without his usual layer of charm. “Afternoon, Miss East.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Hawk. Just bringing the fresh ghost jars for the posts. Looks like everything’s pretty much done.”

“Just about. Mr. Rutledge still has to set up the generators, but he promises he’ll manage that with his knockers tonight. No more digging.”

“That’s good. I hear you’ve asked Greer to dinner.”

“I have,” he said.

Jenny smiled; the first sincere, truly pleased smile she’d ever given him. “Glad to hear it. Hope it goes well.”

“Me, too.”

She continued on her way. Bram turned to Jeb, stretched out on his back with his Stetson over his face, long hands folded on his chest and ankles crossed. “Were you the little birdie that told her?”

“I plead the fifth,” the cowboy murmured sleepily.

Bram leaned back on his arms and smiled. He was still smiling when Seung sauntered over with a jingling of spurs and nudged Jeb’s leg with the toe of his boot.

“You dead or asleep?” the sharpshooter asked.

“Dead asleep,” came the muffled reply.

“I don’t really feel like eating at the Pax tonight.”

“Not even on the mayor’s dime?” Jeb reached up to lift his hat and peer at him suspiciously.

“Not in the mood for celebratory noise and huzzahing. I’m going home for a quieter dinner. Care to join me? My treat. I did promise to make up for that thrashing I gave you at the card table the other day.”

“Alright,” Jeb consented, putting on his hat and accepting Seung’s proffered hand to heave him onto his feet. He brushed off his denim trousers and the pair strolled off in easy silence.


	48. Chapter 48

Humming off-key, Hildy sliced a thin sliver of breast meat from the roasting bird and tasted it thoughtfully. “Bit more lemon and rosemary,” she said to herself in German. “And a little more pepper…”

Turkey re-seasoned and re-basted, she slid the tray back into the oven beside the dish of maple-glazed yams. “Now, for dessert…”

From the ice cabinet she drew a large bowl. The contents looked thoroughly unappetizing; even so, she cheerfully stirred the pinkish goo with a long metal spoon, closing her eyes, singing the nursery rhyme her mother had taught her, and concentrating.

By the second verse, she felt the tell-tale tingle in her fingers, the chill that spread from her palm to course down the spoon. By the third it was becoming more difficult to stir; the frozen spoon was meeting solid resistance rather than melted sludge. And by the end of the fourth, she opened her eyes to find a bowl of ice cream in front of her, white frost sparkling on the surface like sugar crystals.

Her gift would never compare to Mother’s, or Liesel’s, but it still proved useful, especially on days like these. She was tucking the bowl back into the cabinet to keep it cold when Seung looked into the kitchen.

“Hallo! All finished for the day?” she trilled.

“All finished, period. Rutledge says the lightning ceremony will happen as planned tomorrow night.”

“ _Wunderbar_! Dinner will be roast turkey, cucumber salad, and yams, with strawberry ice cream to finish.”

“Sounds good. Jeb’s joining us.”

“Oh, lovely — I have not seen him for weeks.”

“We’re going to wash up. Might be a while.”

Hildy waved him off nonchalantly, sucking on a squeezed lemon wedge. “The bird needs another forty minutes anyway. No rush.”

Jeb had gone upstairs ahead of him. By the time Seung opened the door to the Tickled Pink’s opulent lavatory, he was already standing under the showerhead in the corner, naked as the day he was born, busily soaping his close-cropped hair.

Seung silently admired the sight — the froth sliding down his back; the glossy sheen of the water on his rich black skin; his full, rounded backside and the shapely muscles of his calves — as he shucked off his clothes into an untidy pile on the floor.

“’Bout time you stopped window shopping,” Jeb said dryly when Seung began sponging his shoulders. “It’s been a long three weeks. Have to admit I’ve missed you.”

“If you had a job in town, you wouldn’t have to miss me,” Seung countered. “If you asked Lotte, I bet she’d hire you on to play every night.”

“Eh, that’s not a bet I care to take. I like the piano too much to turn it into my livelihood. If I had to play to eat, playing wouldn’t be fun anymore.”

“That feels backwards to me. I’d think making money with something you’re passionate about would be satisfying. Rewarding.” He shifted to let Jeb return the back-washing favor

“For most folks, sure, probably. Me? Nope. I’m just a cross-grained cuss that way. Anyhow, I _like_ being a rancher. It’s peaceful out on the range, especially at night when the cattle are asleep and the only noise is the crackling of the fire. Perfect place to compose music. …And how’ve you been holding up? Bram told me about what happened to Yvonne.”

When Seung didn’t reply, Jeb let the sponge drop to the tiled floor and gently massaged his shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I haven’t been that scared since San Francisco,” Seung confessed, barely audible over the rushing of the water. “I felt that helpless. I was a spectator again, watching someone I love…”

Jeb leaned close. Wrapped his arms around him and kissed the back of his neck. Tucked his chin over his shoulder and just held him tight.

It was exactly what Seung had needed, what he’d desperately craved, since seeing Yvonne unconscious and shivering in that bed. To be held and touched and reassured. That physical, tangible comfort of knowing someone was there for him.

The past week, with Yvonne back on her feet and back to her old ways, he’d thought of slipping away in the night to see Emmett, or Libby. Someone who would understand and satisfy his yearning.

But what if, the moment he dropped his guard, the poisoner attacked again? What if he left to gratify his own needs and returned to find his sister dead? The thought was too terrifying.

Even the past two nights since she’d banished him from her side, he’d kept a watchful vigil from across the street. He’d expended more magic than he had in years, charging the staircase to her room, her door, the entire office of the _Hawk_ with luck: good for her, bad for anyone with ill intentions.

“We don’t know who did it,” Seung said hoarsely, clutching the arms encircling his chest. “That’s what’s killing me: the uncertainty. He could hurt her again. She could be laughing one moment and gone the next. We came here because it was supposed to be safe, and _I’m supposed to protect her_. But I can’t watch her every minute, even if I try and — I’m so tired, Jeb.”

“You’re putting too much responsibility on your own shoulders. You’re not alone. The whole town is on guard — I saw that the moment I rode in Monday. Yvonne’s got so many spells and wards wound around her, there’s no chance of anyone harming her again. Seung, you need to let some of this fear go, before it hollows you out.”

Dripping, tangled hair in his eyes, Seung turned blindly to kiss Jeb. Slid his bronze arms over his black shoulders, cupped the back of his head, and held him tightly as their lips parted and tongues met. It was a hungry and insistent plea of a kiss, his way of begging for a moment where sensation overwhelmed sense, a moment to forget everything beyond each other.

Jeb’s hands grasped the back of Seung’s thighs and lifted him up effortlessly.

He wrapped his legs around the cowboy’s middle.

Hissed when his back met the frigid wet tiles of the wall. But that unpleasantness was soon blotted out by the stroking of hot hands along his sides, his legs, the curves of his ass…

Water drummed a steady tattoo on their skin as Jeb’s mouth devoured Seung’s, as his lips branded his arched neck, as his tongue traced his jumping pulse, as his teeth worried the lobe of his ear…

Trapped between their bodies, pressed against the ridged muscle of Jeb’s stomach, Seung’s cock twitched with each caress and nip. He was achingly hard and needy, every inch of him aflame though the water cascading over them was now ice cold.

“I’ll take care of that,” the cowboy whispered huskily, bracing his feet over the gurgling drain.

Hands like a vise around his thighs, fixing him in place, Jeb entered Seung with a slow, unrelenting thrust of his pelvis that made him keen. When he had penetrated him fully, Jeb froze. To whisper reassurances and kiss Seung softly, giving him the time to acclimate to the invasion. 

“Don’t be gentle with me,” the sharpshooter panted, digging his nails into Jeb’s shoulders. “Not this time. I don’t need gentle.”

“You’re sure?”

Seung nodded — and moaned brokenly as Jeb did as he demanded, pinning him to the wall with vigorous pumps of his hips. His shoulders would be stamped with the grid of the tiles later.

He rode him hard. Used him with urgent, total abandon, slick body sliding over his as if he had unending reserves. Everything was blotted out save for the rushing of the shower and the rising, pounding, inescapable pulse of euphoria…

When Seung came, it was with a sob of relief. He wrapped his arms around Jeb’s neck, clung to him, and wept while his body clenched and quivered. It was a moment of complete release, an outpouring of both heart and body, and in its wake he felt infinitely lighter.

Jeb held him secure as the worst of the tremors faded. “That’s it,” he murmured, kissing cheeks wet with both tears and water. “That’s the way. Let it all out.”

When he felt strong enough to stand, the cowboy lowered him carefully. Soaped him again from head to toe. Rinsed him clean in the now freezing water and toweled him dry.

“Feeling better?” Jeb asked, pulling on one of the many white cotton robes lying folded on the wire rack while Seung tied back his damp hair.

“Considerably. Emmett couldn’t have done a better job.”

Jeb hooted. “I’m gonna tell him that, next time I see him.”

“Not that it’s a competition,” Seung said.

“Of course not. It’s just nice knowing I can stack up to Mr. Comfort, even with his natural edge.” He sat on the rim of the immense claw-footed bathtub that dominated the center of the lavatory, wide and deep enough to fit two with room to spare. “…How would you feel about me staying the night?”

“I’d like that. A lot.”

“Good. Because I think you could do with some more physical therapy. We should try the bathtub next.”

“We’d better have dinner first. Hildy made turkey and yams.”

“Ooh, I love her yams. If you’re feeling up to walking,” he said with a smug smile, “I’ll race you down.”

“What’ll I get if I win?”

“Whatever you want.”

“On three. One… Two…”


	49. PART TWELVE - LET THERE BE LIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Annamaria Doherty (Billie Piper) - a fashionable divorcee.  
> 

**P A R T T W E L V E — L E T T H E R E B E L I G H T**

While the purple twilight deepened like a fresh bruise into the black of true night, and thousands of stars flared into view, flashing and falling around a pregnant pink moon just shy of full…

While conversation and laughter spilled from the Pax, the steady babble of friends and neighbors enjoying good food and strong spirits, easy in the knowledge that someone else was picking up the substantial tab…

While a tiny army of knockers pulled a square machine from Leland Rutledge’s laboratory and dragged it into position with a piping chorus of, “Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho!” and enough ropes to make Gulliver nervous…

While Blythe Carlyle finished hemming the red dress; and Seung Bae complimented Hildy Gruben on her ice cream; and Valentine Collins dragged his cot next to Cotton Webster’s tub; and Caleb Rutledge painted; and Matthew Reynolds told his brothers and sister he was going to be a blacksmith; and Celeste Preston drank a glass of sleeping potion…

He sat and stared up at the lightning-struck oak, scratching behind his right ear. He recognized some of the warding charms woven around its branches. Saw the green and blue lights glowing iridescent in the empty sockets of the skulls, invisible to human eyes; the lights that blinked at him in warning.

The message was clear. He wasn’t wanted here.

But if that was true, why did he still feel drawn to this place, like a metal fragment to a magnet?

He would bide a while longer. Walk the edges of this strange, alluring little community and test its boundaries and barriers. See what else his nose could sniff out before he introduced himself.

Turning his back on the road that led to Main Street, he cut across a dry field of struggling, half-grown vegetables. A startled rattlesnake hissed by his feet but slithered away rather than strike, instinct telling it to flee.

Attacking would be pointless.

***

Lotte woke to an empty bed, hand sliding across sheets still warm and dimpled. She sat up. Shoved the wild mass of auburn hair from her eyes — she needed another haircut, which was good, since Luisa would accept the trimmings as partial payment for her storm calling. “Honey?”

Rosanna stepped out of their private lavatory, fully dressed and toothbrush tucked at the corner of her mouth. “Go back to sleep,” she said around it. “You’ve got another couple hours yet.”

“Why are you up so early?”

“I’m patrolling the western border today.”

“After riding all the way to Luisa’s and back yesterday?”

Rosanna shrugged and continued brushing. “It’s got to be done. The Trans have caught a strange scent near their farm that’s put them and their chickens on edge.”

“Can’t you send Val?”

“No,” the sheriff said firmly. “Not while Cotton’s in this state.”

“Maybe it’s time you hire another deputy. You can’t keep doing everything yourself. You’ll wear yourself to a rag.”

“I wasn’t born to sit still.” Rosanna stepped away to rinse her mouth and brush. Returned to sit on the edge of their broad bed and pull on her boots. Patted her wife’s arms when Lotte slid behind her to embrace her.

“I know, but I still worry. That you’ll work yourself sick, or…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rosanna said.

“You say that,” Lotte whispered, squeezing her tightly. “But I bet your mother told your father the same thing, once upon a time.”

It was an old, old pain. The years had blunted its sharper edges. But there was still a dull ache in her breast whenever she thought of her.

Clara Tupelo had tried so hard to fetter her wandering feet and put down roots, for her family’s sake. But in the end, her nomadic spirit had proved too strong. Rosanna had been seven when her mother left them at sunrise, riding for the horizon on her blood-red mare. She watched her go from her bedroom window and had known in her heart that she would never see her again. And her poor, gentle father — who had known what Clara was when he married her, who had loved her enough to risk an empty future for a present happiness, who had always expected to be abandoned — had been alone ever since.

“I’m not my mother.” She dropped her boots and kissed her gorgeous wife. Combed her strong fingers through her tangled hair. Caressed her freckled arms. “I don’t have her wild heart, thank the Goddess. There’s too much Hawley in me. All I got from her was my face. …I’ll see if James wants to ride with me today. He can’t do much on the farm until it rains.”

“Think you’ll be back in time for lunch?”

“Should be. When’s Miss Pavelich coming to help Ma and Hildy with the party cooking?”

“Around one. It’ll be a long, noisy day.”

“Exactly why you should go back to bed,” Rosanna said gently, kissing her again. “Get some rest while you can.”

“I’ll try. Be careful.”

“I will. Love you.”

With a final kiss, Rosanna yanked on her boots, took her badge and gun off the nightstand, and slipped out of the dim bedroom.

She had closed the door to their suite and was standing by the bar, adjusting her gun belt, when Celeste stepped out onto the second floor landing in a pink cotton nightgown. “Sheriff?” she called softly. “Can I have a quick word?”

“Of course, Miss Preston.”

“Do you still have Yvonne’s tea tin?”

“Locked in my desk at the jail. Why?”

“It seems I may be — Lord, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this — a psychic.”

Rosanna’s ebony eyebrows arched in surprise. “Is that so? Well, now that _is_ spooky. Just the other day Wint and I were lamenting that Hazeldine’s been without a psychic for too long. You’ve got quite the sense of timing.”

“Blythe’s been explaining things to me. I’ve only just started to have visions, so it may be months or years before I can do anything useful with this talent, but… I wanted to see if I picked up anything on the poisoner.”

“How quickly can you get dressed?”

“Give me five minutes.”

Three minutes later, Celeste was hurrying down the stairs in a white linen blouse and dusky rose skirt, blonde hair thrown back into a simple chignon. Her hands were covered by off-white lace gloves, Rosanna noted, exactly like the ones Mrs. Lowenthal always wore.

Rosanna held the front door open for her, then locked it behind them. They set off across the street in the gray pre-dawn gloom, the tread of their footsteps loud in the stillness.

“Where are you off to at this hour?” Celeste asked.

“Patrolling, out past the Tran farm. Their chickens have been acting odd.”

“Two mornings ago, walking back from Jenny’s, I thought I saw something. In that direction. It looked big and black, low to the ground.”

“How come this is the first I’m hearing of it?” Rosanna asked mildly.

“Because when I blinked it disappeared. I thought it was just the heat playing tricks on me.”

“Fair enough. But next time you see something out of place, let me know.”

“Sheriff,” Celeste said deferentially as they reached the jail and Rosanna pulled out her key. “I’ve only been here a couple months. To me, _everything_ looks out of place.”

“Fair enough,” the sheriff chuckled, pushing open the door. “…While we’re on the subject, there’s a chance you’ll see something odd inside. Val’s been giving Cotton some water treatments. Just to warn you.”

The sheriff struck a match on the sole of her boot and lit the closest lamp. Unhooking it from the wall, she carried it to her desk, took out yet another key, and unlocked the tall bottom drawer.

The tin made a soft _clink_ as she set it on the desk. Celeste stared at it grimly and pulled her gloves off a finger at a time. Rosanna sat back in her chair to watch as she wetted her lips nervously and picked the tin up gingerly, as if it would somehow bite her.

She held it for several seconds, absolutely still.

Squeezed her eyes shut and visibly concentrated, brows knitting together.

Shook the tin.

Passed it from hand to hand.

Ran her fingers over every surface inch.

Opened the lid and took a pinch of the tainted tea between her thumb and forefinger.

Sighing, shoulders slumping, Celeste screwed the lid back in place and set the tin down. “Nothing. I knew it was a long shot, but I still hoped…”

“I appreciate the effort. If we haven’t caught the bastard in a month, you can try again.” The sheriff re-locked the drawer. “It’s good of you to want to help.”

“I don’t want him to get away with what he did. And I don’t want Yvonne to always wonder and worry—”

There was a blur of movement in the corner of her eye as something approached her from behind. Startled, Celeste turned, hands flying up defensively. She touched wet skin—

SKY.

VAL.

SUN.

BREATHE.

WATER.

EARTH.

VAL.

BREATHE.

WATER.

THINK.

WATER.

VAL.

**WATER WATER WATER**.

Celeste staggered back, heel catching on the hem of her skirt and sending her crashing to the floor in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs. Palms flat against the pine boards, hip aching from the fall, she gasped hoarsely and fought the urge to faint as Rosanna practically leapt from her chair in her rush to reach her.

“Miss Preston!”

“I’m alright,” she managed to say. The air flooding her lungs felt miraculous after that infinite moment of suffocation and dire, all-consuming thirst. She gazed up at the bewildered and dripping wet Cotton Webster, naked save for a towel knotted loosely around his hips.

“Valentine!” Rosanna shouted, taking Celeste’s fabric-covered elbow and helping her rise. There was a clatter in the next room and Deputy Collins stumbled out in only a half-buttoned shirt.

“What’s wrong, what happened?” he demanded.

“I heard voices,” Cotton said. “Thought the sheriff needed help...” His glazed eyes focused on Celeste’s blanched face. “Miss, did I hurt you?” he whispered, horrified by the prospect.

“No, no, you didn’t,” she assured him quickly. “I’m just fine. You did nothing wrong, Cotton.”

“Val, get him back to his tub,” Rosanna said.

“I just wanted to help,” Cotton said mournfully as Val grasped his hand and pulled him away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

As the back room’s door clicked shut, Rosanna guided Celeste to the chair. “You’re awfully pale. Here,” she pulled open a drawer and took out a jar of peppermints. “Sugar helps with shock. Can I get you a glass of water?”

“No, thank you, the mint’s helping.” Celeste stretched for her gloves and pulled them on, fingers shaking only slightly.

Why couldn’t this blasted gift have kicked in a minute sooner? Why couldn’t it have shown her a nefarious poisoner instead of—

“God,” Celeste said, staring at Rosanna, tears filling her eyes. “That poor man.”

“What was it? What did you see?”

“Nothing. I didn’t see anything. I just felt. He’s _dying_ , Rosanna. He’s suffocating, he’s starving. He’s so thirsty all he can think about is water. It’s agony inside his head.”

Rosanna pulled a kerchief from her pocket and handed it to her, face so stoic it was statuesque. She waited until Celeste had wiped her eyes and nose before she spoke.

“Hazeldine only survives because of a balance. The leylines beneath the town have to be kept in stasis. Grandfather has to be protected from Outsiders. Too much uncontrolled magic, too much meddling with nature, could destroy everything.

“The drought that’s slowly killing Cotton has finally reached a point where I have no choice but to risk that balance. The day after the solstice, Luisa Mariposa is coming to call up a storm. Her magic is extremely dangerous; not even she can fully control it. You’ll need to stay indoors and away from windows. But, afterwards, the rain will return. And so will Cotton. He’ll be alright in a couple days, miss.”

The door swung open again and Val stepped out, shoving the tails of his shirt into his trousers. “Celeste, please, don’t hold whatever just happened against him,” he begged. “He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s just confused right now.”

“He didn’t hurt me, Val. Just gave me a shock, that’s all.” She stood and went to him. The sandy-haired man was visibly distraught, on the verge of tears, and she hugged him without hesitation. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry he’s in pain. I’m sorry you’re _both_ in pain.”

Val nodded wordlessly against her shoulder, briefly returning her embrace before he pulled back.

“Cotton loves you a great deal,” Celeste said softly. “He feels safe around you. You’re always there in his head, even on days like this.”

“…Thank you, Celeste.” He made no attempt to stem or hide his tears. “Excuse me; I need to be with him.” Nodding to the sheriff, he locked the door behind him.

“I should go, too,” Celeste said. “Let you get to your patrol.”

“Are you sure you’re recovered? Perhaps you should sit for a few more minutes. Have another peppermint.”

“No, thank you — the good thing about visions is they don’t linger for long.”

“That is good.”

“Have a good morning, Sheriff.”

“And I hope yours only improves, Miss Preston.”

***

Celeste hadn’t lied to the sheriff. Within a minute of ending her connection with Cotton Webster, the sharp clarity of the vision had faded. It no longer overwhelmed her. Her thoughts were her own again.

But seeing the world through the odd deputy’s eyes had felt disquietingly alien. Surreal. She had known for some time that Webster wasn’t human, but there was knowing and there was _knowing_.

There was an impossible dichotomy inside him; part of him felt like a normal man. The rest…. Could only be called “other”. It wasn’t human, nor animal — not in the remote vicinity of either. It defied her understanding, and the awareness of it unsettled her deeply.

She was struggling to rationalize this uneasiness; Cotton was a well-meaning, kind man who couldn’t help being what he was. She liked him, pitied him, and she didn’t want to avoid or fear him.

Just because he wasn’t human didn’t mean he wasn’t a good person.


	50. Chapter 50

Nova was chewing a sausage link and labeling the bones of the hand on a diagram when Rachel burst into the kitchen. _Dad’s gone riding with Sheriff Rosy_ , she signed before stealing the last piece of sausage from his plate. _Hello, Doc_.

Hermann chuckled. _Good morning, Rachel. Would you like some fried potatoes?_

_No, thank you. I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast. I’m still full_. She nibbled a piece of buttered toast. _I was hoping Nova was free so we could go thunder egg hunting._

Nova turned pleading eyes on the portly doctor, who made a production of sighing heavily, scratching his bearded chin, and frowning. _I don’t know… He really should be focusing on his studies today…_

_I’ll study all day tomorrow. Promise_.

_The littles are off from school until next Wednesday,_ Rachel pointed out with a winsome smile. _For the party and the solstice and the storm calling. Shouldn’t Nova get a break, too?_

_You should be a lawyer, sweetheart,_ Doc signed with a smile. _Alright. You can run off and have some fun. Just be careful._

_We will! Bye!_ Rachel grabbed Nova’s arm and sprinted for the door, dragging him in her wake.

_Where should we go?_ Nova asked as they walked down the promenade. People were setting up a small stage near the bank and hanging colorful bunting for the lighting ceremony. There’d be food and music and dancing afterwards, though not quite on the scale of Mr. Ingram’s barn-raising.

One of the things Nova liked most about his new home was how the people turned everything into a party. They celebrated the usual — christenings, weddings, calendar holidays — of course. But not many towns would have food and dancing to commemorate the births of cows, or a storm that passed without damaging anything, or the electrifying of some streetlamps. And, in two more days, there’d be _another_ party for the solstice.

Really, it was a wonder anyone had time to do anything in between celebrations.

_Our place. It’s so hot, I’d like a swim_ , Rachel signed.

He cut a meaningful glance at her. She smiled coyly. _Thought we were going to look for thunder eggs?_

_We can do that later. We’ve got hours before the party._

Her hand clasped his and he only just managed to keep up with her.

***

“Their place” had once been “his place”. His own personal heaven. A tiny piece of Eden not far from Grandfather, on the edge of Mr. Gillenwater’s ranch, where Nova had been quite literally reborn.

The little glen had everything: a thick ring of leafy trees and evergreens for shade; a cluster of rocks that was a perfect platform to jump into a crystal-clear pool that bubbled up from an underground stream; enough wildflowers to satisfy a thousand bees; and a swathe of soft moss and grass ideal for laying out and watching the clouds pass overhead.

The first time he had seen the place, he’d been dying and feverish. It was the last place where he’d ever heard the whistling of wind, the burbling of water, the buzzing of insects. Some would think it odd that he would happily return to such a spot.

But that moment had been the turning point in his life. Because he came here, he had a father, a home, Rachel, the chance to finally and truly be himself. He could only view the glen as a sanctuary and sacred site.

The moment they stepped past the trees, Rachel let go of his hand and pulled her loose plaid dress over her head in one swift, smooth movement. She tossed the garment aside with a cheeky grin and sprinted to the water’s edge, tucking her sun-browned legs up in her arms as she leapt into the water with a glittering splash.

He watched her cavort and dive like an otter as he unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt, leaving his clothes where they’d stay dry.

_Slowpoke!_ she signed, sticking out her tongue.

The water rising up his legs was cold enough to make him shiver, even in the claustrophobic heat. Before he could take the time to acclimate in steady increments, Rachel surfaced nearby and splashed him thoroughly. She grinned at his gritted teeth and dripping curls.

_You’re getting dunked for that_ , he promised.

_You’ll have to catch me first_.

Several minutes passed without words. They were too busy swimming and splashing and dunking and grappling to sign. Eventually, they bobbed together, treading water with lazy kicks of their legs. She held onto his shoulders, the water lapping at their necks, as they kissed.

Moments like this, Nova wondered if he _had_ died. If this really was heaven. Where else did all of your deepest dreams come true? How else could he be so perfectly content?

Rachel’s hand slid down to press against his heart, and it felt as if it would burst with happiness. _This is it,_ he thought to himself. She’s _it. It’s her or no one else._

He drew back from the kiss and hoped she could see everything he felt in his eyes. _Rachel_ , he mouthed. _I love you—_

A flash of movement at the top of the rock pile made him flinch, water filling his nostrils. Nova spluttered and stared up into amber eyes framed by thick black fur. The cool water was like ice again; he felt frozen down to the bone. The magical moment had shifted instantly into a nightmare.

Rachel gasped and clung to him as the black wolf panted, its rubbery, foam-flecked lips parted and pink tongue lolling. It studied them with disquieting intelligence, crouched low against the gray slate.

Nova had never seen a wolf before, but he doubted they often grew this big; the creature was the size of a small wagon. A man’s head would fit easily between those fanged jaws — not the most reassuring of thoughts to be having right now.

Did wolves swim? Were they safe if they kept to the center of the pool? Or would it wait patiently for them to tire, until they had to seek dry land or drown? There was no chance they’d outrun it; a single leap from it would match five of their steps. Was there anything within reach he could use as a weapon: a sharp branch, a heavy rock? He was under no masculine illusions of single-handedly slaying such a monster on his own, but if he could just distract it long enough for Rachel to escape—

Abruptly, the wolf sat back on its haunches like one of the Rutledge dogs. Licked its lips and made a huffing, almost amused sound, before hopping down from the rocks and trotting away through the trees.

They floated uneasily for several minutes. Was it a trick? Was the animal hiding just out of sight, waiting for them to lower their guard and leave the pool? Was that something a wolf was capable of — laying a trap? The creature had looked disturbingly intelligent.

Just when Nova’s legs began to burn with strain, a hare loped into view. The animal approached the rocks, stopped short, and sniffed carefully. Huge ears flat along its skinny neck, it followed the same path the wolf had taken, pausing every few feet to sniff and look around.

_I think it’s safe_ , Nova mouthed, and Rachel nodded, following him to the mossy ledge closest to their clothes. They dressed and ran, hand-in-hand, toward town as quickly as their aching legs would carry them.


	51. Chapter 51

“Would you like a headache powder?”

Celeste looked up from the order form she was filling out. “What?”

“A headache powder. Do you want one?” George pulled a snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve been rubbing your temple all morning.”

“I’m fine. And you probably shouldn’t take so many of those every day.”

George frowned. “Miss East makes them. It’s perfectly safe.”

“To take one once in a while, yes, but not constantly. It’s probably building up in your system, like that blasted passion potion did with Yvonne. And what is that?”

“It’s obviously a snuffbox,” he said curtly. “It was my grandfather’s. I’ve never used it as it was intended — I hate tobacco.”

“Is it steel?”

“Silver.”

_Well, that squelches Jenny’s theory_ , Celeste thought. Though, in all honesty, she’d forgotten all about her silly werewolf tests the last few days. Her thoughts had been preoccupied with far more serious matters. 

As she watched, George pointedly tore another of the little white packets over a glass of lemonade and drank it down. She sighed at the childishness of grown men determined to be contrary at all costs and went back to her form.

But she couldn’t concentrate. “Have you gone to Dr. Pendergast about your headaches?” she asked, lowering her pencil. “There might be something seriously wrong with you.”

“I know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered, opening a book. “It’s nothing Doc can cure.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve been in a mood all day,” George countered. “Every time I try to say something, you snap at me. So why should I tell you?”

Celeste stared at him, mouth agape. “Oh? Is that so? I’ve been too terse with you? Too _irritable_? And you don’t like it? So you’re going to withhold something from me? Lord, I can’t imagine how _that_ must feel.”

“Sarcasm isn’t becoming on you.”

“I don’t give a damn. Hypocrisy isn’t attractive, either, and yet—” she gestured sharply at him. “What’s good for the goose ought to be good for the gander.”

“This isn’t at all comparable. You _lied_. I just don’t care to share something private.” He closed his book with a _smack_ and got up from the table.

She was following him into the parlor before she realized she’d made the conscious decision to stand. Why she was so riled up, she had no idea — all she knew was that they were suddenly back to their old argumentative ways and she was strangely _relieved_ amidst the current annoyance.

Yesterday had felt off-kilter because George had made a concentrated effort to speak politely to her. He hadn’t raised his voice once. It was as if she’d walked into the middle of a stiff stage performance, artificial and awkward. Hearing him grump and mutter and stomp again was oddly heartening.

“If it’s an allergy, a reaction to something, locking yourself up here obviously isn’t helping. The dust and clutter can’t be good for you. I know you’re uncomfortable around people, but you might feel better if you get some fresh air, take a long walk—”

“I’m an empath, alright?” he shouted, whirling on her. “I feel what everyone around me feels. If their thoughts, memories, are tied to strong emotions, I see those, too. It’s a constant bombardment. So, yes, I take a lot of pain powders, and yes, I avoid people. You would, too, if you were me.”

He sucked in a breath and glared down at her, fire practically crackling in his eyes.

“…You’re an empath? _You_?” Celeste couldn’t repress the note of incredulity. “Lord, but the Universe has a perverse sense of humor.” 

“I’m glad you find it so amusing,” he said, dry as sandpaper.

“It’s not amusing. It’s the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard. When I think of empathy, I think of soft, maternal ladies with big laps and chubby arms and sweets in their pockets. Not…” She waved vaguely from his face to his feet.

“I’m sorry I’m not more chubby and maternal,” he glowered.

She burst out laughing at the sudden mental image of George in a pinafore and mobcap. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wheezed as his eyes narrowed. “Just the thought of you as a sweet housewife…”

Did the corner of his mouth just twitch in an aborted smile, or had she imagined it?

She brushed her eyes and caught her breath. “…I apologize. Sincerely.” An unpleasant thought pricked at her. “…Have I been contributing to the headaches? Have you been feeling—”

“You’ve given me some headaches,” he said, “but not with your emotions. Neither you nor Ianto project like everyone else.”

“Why?”

“Damned if I know for sure. My mother told me some people are just good at controlling themselves. At locking their feelings and thoughts up in little boxes.”

Celeste blinked. A cool shiver crept along her neck. She thought of the doors she mentally shoved everything behind. “…Was your mother an empath, too?”

“Yes.” He turned away. Pushed the book still in his hands onto a shelf. “It’s what killed her.”

Why did that matter-of-fact statement ring a false note in her head? She thought back to the potato peeling vision. How frail and waxy pale Margaret Godfrey had looked, the bones of her wrists swollen and knobby, the slight tremor to her hands. The shaky handwriting in the cookbook.

Granted, she knew nothing about empathy as a supernatural power. Perhaps it consumed from the inside out over time, like tuberculosis.

But she had seen women dying of wasting diseases before — the West was full of them. They poured from the North and the East, sent by doctors who prescribed dry air and heat as treatment. Some indeed found the climate to be a remedy, recovered their strength, and eventually went home cured. But others just dwindled away, like Margaret had…

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Are you sure it was the empathy that killed your mother?”

“I’m not discussing it further.” The words were as brittle and cold as ice.

“I’m sorry. …And thank you.”

“For?”

“For explaining. And for acting like yourself again. For dropping the forced civility. I was uncomfortable all day yesterday, with you walking on eggshells around me.”

George shook his head ruefully. “You’re the most peculiar woman. I _try_ to be a gentleman, and you’d rather I act like a beast?”

“I’d rather you act like yourself. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not a delicate flower. You don’t need to treat me with kid gloves.”

“Then I don’t—” He hesitated, lips pressed together.

“You don’t what?”

“I was afraid I reminded you of your husband. With all of my blustering and stomping.”

“…No. No, you don’t. You’re nothing like him.” He was nothing like _any_ of them. “And as strange as it sounds, I quite enjoy arguing with you.”

“The most peculiar woman,” he echoed, bewildered.


	52. Chapter 52

Ianto added the extra-large bottle of vinegar to Mr. Kaneshiro’s reed basket. “Anything else, sir? …Sir?”

Hideo was staring intently in the direction of the storeroom. “…You’ve got a leak,” he said. “I’d better take a look.”

Sure enough, when the plumber opened an access panel in the wall, there was a slight trickle beading along one of the pipes. It took mere seconds for him to reach up and tighten the joint with his long fingers, no tools necessary. “Tell the boss man I should look the washroom over in the next month or so,” he advised Ianto, wiping his hands dry on a handkerchief. “Just to make sure everything’s in good shape.”

When he had first arrived, Ianto had been astonished that almost every building in Hazeldine proper had indoor plumbing. Not just that: full lavatories with porcelain bathtubs and showers and chain toilets. Cold _and_ hot running water. It was boggling in a town this size, in such a remote place.

Hideo, naturally, had been the one to explain it: below Hazeldine there was both an underground lake and a fast-moving stream, which surfaced a couple miles away to flow into a larger river. Water was drawn up from one; some wastes were sent down into the other to be carried away, while others were funneled off into a separate reservoir. Hideo’s parents and uncles — he was a first generation local — had been the ones to build the complex piping system, and he was diligent about maintaining it.

“It’ll be four dollars even today, sir,” Ianto said, tallying up the plumber’s purchases.

“By my reckoning, it should be four and a half,” he replied shrewdly.

“You fixed the pipe,” Ianto pointed out.

“Oh, alright.”

Hideo was pushing the coins across the counter when the front door burst open. “Mr. Ianto, Mr. Ianto!” Avonlea shouted, dashing around the counter and throwing herself around his legs.

“Whoa there. Why the commotion, miss?” He caught her beneath the outstretched arms and scooped her up, balancing her on his hip.

“Nova and Rachel saw a wolf! A _man-eater_.” The girl looked equally terrified and thrilled. “Big as one of Mr. Snori’s piggies! With fangs! It almost ate them all up!”

The smile on his face froze. “…Where?” he heard himself ask, faint beneath the frantic pounding of his heart.

“By Mr. Herschel’s ranch. A bunch of people are gonna go hunting for it, with _guns_. …Mr. Ianto, you’re all white. Do you not feel good?”

“Just need to sit down for a bit,” he mumbled, setting the girl on her feet and sinking onto his stool.

“Don’t be scared, Mr. Ianto,” Avonlea said earnestly, patting his cheek. “Mr. Seung’ll shoot that big bad wolf before it hurts anybody.”

“Avonlea, why don’t you go holler upstairs for Miss Celeste?” Hideo suggested, lowering his basket to the floor. The girl hurried off and he grasped Ianto’s forearm firmly. “Look at me, Ianto.”

Dazedly, he met the plumber’s deep-set eyes. Pinpricks of yellow light flickered in them. A curious calm settled over him, like a soft blanket; the immediate panic was muffled beneath it. “Breathe deeply,” Hideo ordered, and his lungs instantly complied. “You’re in no danger. You’re safe here.”

He nodded slowly. Hideo stepped aside, breaking eye contact, and the room snapped back to the forefront of his awareness. Anxiety still pulsed in sharp bursts beneath his ribs, but it wasn’t as overpowering.

“What’s this I hear about a wolf as big as a house?” Celeste asked, holding Avonlea’s hand.

“Nova Pendergast and Rachel Campbell saw a wolf near Grandfather,” Hideo said calmly, picking up his basket. “A posse’s riding out to look for it, while the trail’s fresh. That’s all. No one’s been attacked. People are just excited — there haven’t been wolves around here for years. Excuse me; I’ve got an appointment to keep. See you at the lighting ceremony.”

“Feeling better, Mr. Ianto?” Avonlea asked.

“Yes. I’m fine,” he said softly. “Nothing to worry about.”

If only that was true.


	53. Chapter 53

Caleb smoothed a hand down his shirt. Over his hair. Nodded politely at the Duprees as they passed by arm-in-arm, he in a silver suit and she in a topaz and teal-striped gown. Raised his hand to knock—

The door swung open.

Blythe smiled up at him.

His jaw dropped.

The dark hair that had been bound in braids for years was loose over her shoulders. Kohl lined her eyes and thick lashes. A teardrop pearl dangled from the black ribbon encircling her neck.

And she was wearing a bright cherry red dress. The skirt belled out from the fitted waist. The v-neckline and front panel of the bodice were trimmed with black lace. A thick black ribbon sash was tied into a fat bow at her lower back.

“Do you like it?” she asked, turning so he could admire the entire dress.

“Very much,” he said faintly.

“You said you missed seeing me in colors.”

“Yes, I did.”

“This will be one of the designs for the catalogue,” she said, closing the shop door behind her. “With a few more embellishments I didn’t have time to add on this.” She took his arm. “…Shall we go?”

The pair joined the growing crowd in front of the bank, passing a solemn Sheriff Tupelo and Seung Bae.

“It’s no average wolf,” Seung said. “Luther tracked it from the glen to the very edge of Grandfather. The trail stopped cold, as if the thing suddenly sprouted wings. Or changed into a new shape…”

“You think it’s a were?” Rosanna asked grimly.

“Might be. Or a skinwalker. Could be one of my kind, casting tangible illusions like a Phooka.”

“That would explain why Lai and Xian Tran didn’t smell wolf — they swore to me whatever’s been prowling around the farm smelled of magic, not animal. Of course it would be lurking north while James and I were riding west,” she muttered, slapping her leg irritably. “One of Val’s hares came into town not long after Nova and Rachel sounded the alarm. Told him it had smelled ‘another one’.”

“Another one?”

“The night of Yvonne’s fit, it was spooked by something it didn’t recognize out near Jenny’s cottage. ‘Four feet, teeth, claws, forest smell’ was how it described it.”

“So there may be _two_ of these prowling around town?”

“Maybe…”

Seung’s face darkened. “Could they be responsible? For Yvonne?”

“No idea. Could just be coincidence that one was sighted that night.”

“Long odds for a coincidence,” Seung muttered.

Nearby, Dr. Pendergast settled into a chair next to Matthew Reynolds. “How did your first day as a blacksmith go?” he asked.

“Well, I could barely lift the tools,” the boy admitted. He sipped a glass of fruit punch. “And my arms feel like boiled noodles.”

“Ah, that is alright,” the doctor said and clapped his back. “You’ll get big and strong like Miss Perdillo soon enough.”

“I know. And I like the work already. It’s magical all on its own, watching something go from lumps of metal to horseshoes and pans and things.”

Odessa Pavelich and Hildy carried trays of German pastries and Russian borscht from the Pax to the buffet table. The hardy brewer’s arms bulged as she hooked the huge metal cauldron onto a tripod stand. “Nothing like cold borscht on hot day!” Odessa boomed. “With plenty sour cream, unh?”

“Hildy, could you help Ma bring out the sandwiches?” Lotte asked as she filled cups of punch. “I need to run a couple plates over to Val and Web.”

“Oh, _ja_ , of course!” The madame turned on her heel and hurried past Boston Drake and Jeb Dunne, who accepted cups from Lotte with murmured thanks.

“If it’s fae, we should start carrying iron bullets,” Boston said.

Jeb frowned. The fellow cowboy had a point, but carrying iron ammunition around Seung felt disloyal and dangerous, even though he hadn’t the slightest intention of ever drawing on the sharpshooter. “If it’s a were, we need silver shot, not iron.”

“Maybe we should hedge our bets and load both. Alternate them in the chambers.”

“Maybe we’re all going at this a little half-cocked. There’s no evidence this thing, whatever it is, is actually a dangerous threat. It didn’t hurt those kids. Just watched them for a bit. And it hasn’t eaten even one of the Tran chickens.”

James Campbell approached, took an empty cup from the stack, and poured a ladleful of punch into it. He turned to the now silent cowboys, tight lines around his generous mouth.

“…How’s Rachel?” Boston asked.

_Still shaken. It was a bad scare_ , he wrote on his slate. He nodded toward a cluster of chairs, where his daughter and Nova sat, subdued and tired. Yvonne Bae was sitting with them. A pencil and the reporter’s ever-present notebook passed back and forth between the trio in a silent interview.

A soft drum roll from Snori Sorensen cut through the noise. Those gathered turned their collective attention to the stage, where Mayor Tupelo stood beside his niece. Leland Rutledge, Eduardo Ruiz, and Libby Hawk sat in a trio of chairs behind them, under the fluttering red and yellow bunting. “Now that dusk is falling, the time has come to turn on our new lights,” announced the mayor. “But before we do that, Sheriff Tupelo has a few words to say.”

“By now, you’ve all heard about the wolf. It hasn’t attacked anyone or taken any livestock yet — seems to be keeping to the outskirts — but just to be safe, I’m going to arrange some patrols around the farms. If you leave the town, even if it’s just to call on Jenny, I’d like you to take a gun with you. Nellie, Greer, and Jen are already making protection amulets for anyone who wants one, free of charge. There’s no reason to panic, but there’s no reason to take any chances, either. Just keep your eyes open, and report any sightings or problems directly to me. Thank you.” Rosanna left the stage to a smattering of applause and went to stand with her wife, just returning from the jail.

“As you all know,” said the mayor, not about to let a wolf completely steal the spotlight, “this community project wouldn’t have happened without the ingenuity and gumption of Leland Rutledge.” The scientist waved sedately from his chair. “This has truly been Leland’s baby. He designed every part of this array and is gifting it to Hazeldine. That’s right, folks — this genius of a man isn’t accepting a single red cent for this. Let’s show him our heartfelt appreciation with a round of applause.”

When the clapping had faded, the mayor went on. “I also need to call out Eduardo Ruiz, who not only took the time to ensure the project wouldn’t suffer dangerous complications, he also worked alongside more than a dozen volunteers in blistering heat to complete it. A bit more applause for Eduardo and all of the volunteers.”

Eduardo stood to sketch a bow, sparking a few chuckles, and stepped forward to stand beside Will, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Pardon me, Mayor, but before you go on, I feel it’s only right to shower some praise on you,” the notary public said smoothly. “Ladies and gentlemen, our mayor loves to speak highly of us. This is why we elect him every year, of course — to flatter our egos.” Another ripple of laughter. “But in all sincerity, he was a fundamental part of this endeavor. He was the one who approached Leland with the idea. And every step of the way, he wanted to make sure the end result would be safe and useful to everyone in Hazeldine. So how about some applause for our mayor, huh?”

Grinning broadly, Will shook Eduardo’s hand. “Thanks, Ed, that was swell,” he said over the enthusiastic cheers. “…Alright, folks, the moment we’re all here for has arrived. We had a little drawing at the Pax last night, and Miss Liberty Hawk is the lucky lady who’s going to flip the inaugural switch. Miss Hawk, if you will?”

Libby shook out her yellow-and-black checked skirt and stepped up to a tall box crowned with an over-sized lever. Several whistles of appreciation rang out of the crowd, and she waved regally as the evening breeze tugged at her wrapped yellow headscarf and tight corkscrew curls. “On the count of three?” she suggested, as Snori began a dramatic drum roll.

“One…”

“Two…”

“Three!”

The lever clicked with a loud buzz. The lamp posts blossomed with white light, brilliantly illuminating the whole of Main Street. Cheers filled the air and backs were heartily slapped. Leland descended the stage and shook hands as they were thrust toward him. Mayor Tupelo looked out over the scene with a chest swelled with pride. Gremlins scampered around feet and shimmied up the poles to wave rags and kerchiefs like flags, burbling with excitement.

Then, muffled at first but quickly growing more distinct, the rattling of wagon wheels approached out of the twilight gloaming. Townspeople parted quickly to the sides and stared as a familiar black stagecoach rolled down Main Street, swaying to a stop near the stage.

Charles stood, pale eyes twinkling with amusement, and nodded at the mayor. He swung down from his seat and opened the passenger door. A slim, pale hand stretched out and took his, using it for leverage to step down.

It was a young woman in a white and red-striped dress, expensively cut and the height of New York fashion. She straightened a red hat accented with ostrich feathers that rested on her honey blonde curls and gazed around in wonder. “You certainly know how to welcome someone,” she said.

“This is Miss Annamaria Doherty, Mayor Tupelo,” Charles said, as if the woman was a princess and he her herald.

“Welcome to Hazeldine, Miss Doherty,” the mayor said, swiftly regaining his sangfroid. He hurried down from the stage and clasped her hand. “You’ve arrived at a historic moment. We’ve just turned on our electric lamps for the first time.”

“They’re lovely,” she said. “I apologize for interrupting the celebration.”

“Nonsense! You’ve merely added to it. We can celebrate the lights _and_ your arrival. Charles, would you take Miss Doherty’s luggage to the Pax? Miss, this is my niece, Lotte Barton, the proprietress of our finest hotel and saloon, the Pax Parley…”

At the buffet table, Josie let out a triumphant hoot. “I called it! Didn’t I say our next arrival would be a lady? Alright, everyone, pay up! That hat with the cherries is finally going to be mine!”


	54. Chapter 54

Avonlea tugged at Ianto’s hand. There was frosting from one of Hildy’s pastries smeared on her chin. “Can I get a piggy-back ride, Mr. Ianto?”

“In a minute, sweetheart,” he promised, wiping her face clean with his handkerchief. “Stay with Miss Celeste. I need to go talk to someone.”

Jenny looked up as he approached. “I was wondering when I’d see you.”

“Please.” He tilted his head toward the closest alley. She followed him without hesitation into the privacy of the shadows. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you,” the witch said. “These days, you leave the shop as often as Godfrey does. Do you know who it is? Is he a friend of yours?”

Ianto shook his head. “I avoid other weres. I can hide what I am from humans, but not from weres.”

“What are the odds it’s another Wulver?”

“Extremely poor.”

“So he might be dangerous.”

“Possibly. Loners…” He hesitated. What he was about to say would reflect badly on him, too. “Loners aren’t as stable as those who stay in a pack. Without a community to keep them in check, the animal can overwhelm the man.”

“Seung will be at the store tomorrow morning the moment you open,” Jenny said. “To buy silver bullets. There was a light in his eyes when he told me that I didn’t like, that I’ve never seen in him before. He’s very gung-ho about hunting that wolf down. You’d better not go for any midnight runs for a while.”

Ianto glanced up at the moon hanging fat and swollen over their heads, a mere inch away from full. He didn’t have to elaborate for her to understand.

“Shit,” Jenny said eloquently.

“Is there something you can make me that will suppress the urge?”

“Ianto, no amount of herbs will keep you from shifting on a full moon.” She sighed heavily and tossed back the wine in her glass. “But maybe… I could brew you an enchanted sleep. The kind they used to use on fairy tale princesses in overgrown castles.”

“How will that help?”

“It’ll knock you out, for starters. Put you in such a deep sleep _nothing_ will wake you except the counter spell. You’ll still shift, but you’ll sleep through it. It’ll keep the wolf from taking over. Keep you safe in a locked room instead of roaming the fields in front of a bunch of trigger-happy men. Get to my cottage by dusk tomorrow. I’ll dose you and secure you long before moonrise, then give you the counter spell at dawn so you can slip back to the store with no one the wiser.”

“That’ll put you at risk,” Ianto said doubtfully.

“Do you really become a feral beast when you shift? Do you seek out little girls in red capes, their sweet bedridden grannies, and gobble them up?”

“No…” he admitted. “Mostly I run. Chase a rabbit or two.”

“Then you’re a bigger threat to Val’s hares than you are to me,” the witch said dryly. “Everything I know about weres and shifters tells me that the only truly dangerous ones are the ones who would hurt someone in their human forms. Your animal half isn’t that different from the man. Anyway, I’ve got plenty of nasty spells up my sleeve I can use for defense — and, honestly, I’d love the opportunity to use them. …We’d better get back to the party before someone wonders where we got to.”

As he wound his way through the crowd, he wondered how many of the people there — the smiling, laughing neighbors he had come to think of as friends — would shoot him without hesitation if they knew what he was.

“Piggy-back time?” Avonlea asked hopefully, cheeks now dotted with sticky crumbs from a slice of apple pie.

Ianto smiled and crouched, brushing the crumbs away. “Piggy-back time.”


	55. PART THIRTEEN - THE FORMER MRS. VANCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:  
> * Bobbie Lacy (Billy Porter) - the milliner/haberdasher.  
> * Leah Ginsberg (Jenny Slate) - a potter.

**P A R T T H I R T E E N — T H E F O R M E R M R S. V A N C E**

“You have such a lovely saloon,” Annamaria Doherty said earnestly at breakfast. Today’s dress was lemon linen embroidered with amethyst starbursts. She’d come down from her room with both a parasol and a reticule, curls bound by a silk ribbon, the picture of a genteel lady. She even lifted her pinkie when she sipped her tea. “I’ve stayed at several the past two weeks, and this is by far the nicest of the bunch. I slept like a log last night in that wonderfully comfortable bed.”

“What brings you to Hazeldine, Miss Doherty?” Celeste asked, holding her mug out to Lotte for another refill of coffee.

“You’ll think this funny,” the woman said with a shy smile. The teeth behind her pink lips were large and a little crooked, but the imperfection was charming contrasted with her fine clothes and coiffed honeyed curls. And, for all of her obvious wealth, her brown eyes were soft and warm. There was nothing pretentious or disdainful about the high-class Miss Doherty. “But I’m here because of your paper.”

“You mean _The Hazeldine Hawk_?” Lotte asked, surprised.

“Yes! I was in Sante Fe, at a restaurant, and whoever had sat at the table before me had left a paper behind. The waiter was very slow to take my order, and I started reading it to pass the time. The lead story was about the birth of a two-headed chicken; the reporter interviewed the farmer, and he said it was a sign that there would be an eventful autumn full of change. I’ve a fondness for strange stories,” she confessed lightly, “and I would dearly like some change in my life. So I took it as a sign. As soon as I’d finished eating, I went to my hotel and asked the concierge to cancel my ticket to Tucson and find me a coach to Hazeldine, Wyoming. Within the hour, that nice man pulled up and loaded my things. And here I am!”

“Will you be staying long, or is this just another stop on your travel itinerary?” Josie said, spooning more scrambled eggs from her pan onto the woman’s plate.

“I’m not quite sure yet... I’ll have to have a good look around. My original destination when I set out was Los Angeles. I looked up the furthest city from New York on a map and it was either Los Angeles or San Francisco — Los Angeles won the coin toss.”

“Well, we may not be as far from New York as Los Angeles, but I’m sure we’re friendlier,” Josie said. “If you need anything, dear, just ask. More bacon?”

“No, thank you, I’m quite full.”

“I’m off to work,” Celeste announced, sliding off her stool. “Hope your first day goes well, Miss Doherty.”

“Please call me Annamaria. I know it’s a mouthful, but I’d like a little less formality in my life.”

“You like strange stories and don’t care about standing on tradition — you’ll fit right in, Annamaria,” said Celeste.

“So you’re looking for a fresh start,” Lotte said conversationally after Celeste had gone and Josie retreated to her kitchen. “Were you tired of your old life in New York?”

“Yes, but it’s more that I burned most of my bridges there,” Annamaria said, dropping another sugar cube into her tea and stirring slowly as it dissolved. “I divorced my husband last month. In society’s eyes, I’m one small step above a leper now.

“Not that I care much about how society feels, mind you,” she said with a flare of heat. “It’s just that everyone in New York knows me as Abel Vance’s wife. And now that I’ve stopped being that person, I want to live somewhere without all of that baggage. Somewhere where I can be myself. …Though I hope you don’t think less of me now that you know I’m a divorcée,” Annamaria said softly.

“I don’t,” Lotte assured. “In fact, I think I like you more.”

Annamaria blinked at her. “Why’s that?”

“It takes guts and gumption to be a woman and petition for divorce Outside.”

“‘Outside’?”

“What we locals call the wider world. Anyplace that isn’t Hazeldine. Was he a bastard? Your husband?”

“Goodness, you speak plainly,” said Annamaria, arching her thick eyebrows and grinning crookedly. “And yes, yes he was. A cold fish of a bastard. He wasn’t violent,” she clarified, granting him that concession. “He didn’t beat me. He just never really saw me as a whole person. I was an ornament to him, a doll to occasionally play with, a bag of money that made him look more respectable. He was distant and neglectful and said spiteful things when he was bored. I was miserably lonely every day of the ten years we spent together. Finally, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to keep living like that. So I went to the courthouse, and that was that.”

“Regardless of the time of day, that calls for a toast.” Lotte took a bottle off the shelf behind her and filled two shot glasses. “Congratulations on your emancipation from the cold fish bastard,” Lotte said, clinking her glass against Annamaria’s. The pretty blonde threw back her shot like a seasoned pro.

“Anyone who thinks the West is full of hard drinkers,” she told Lotte, “has never been to a Manhattan dinner party.”

***

“Coming down with something?” George asked as he gathered the breakfast dishes. “All you’ve eaten is your ham.”

“I’m not very hungry,” replied Ianto. That was only half true — all his stomach wanted today was meat. He was usually better at hiding his full moon symptoms; could usually force down some fried potatoes and grits for appearance’s sake. It wouldn’t do for someone to notice he was under the weather once a month like clockwork.

But today he was more focused on managing his rapidly growing anxiety. He was too distracted to deliver a convincing performance in the role of normal human. 

“Your eyes look a little glassy, too,” George said, concerned. He pressed a dry palm to Ianto’s damp brow. “You don’t feel feverish, at least. But cold sweats aren’t a good sign in this kind of heat, either. Do you feel achy? Having any trouble breathing?”

“Just a little tired, that’s all. Probably had too much to drink at the party last night.”

George frowned. Ianto rarely finished even a single glass of beer with dinner. “Why don’t you lie back down for a while? Celeste can manage the till just fine. I’ll come down and help with any of the heavy lifting.”

“I can never sleep during the day. Really, I’ll be fine.”

“…Alright, but if you still feel poorly by lunch I’m getting the Doc,” George said firmly. “No arguments.”


	56. Chapter 56

It felt only right that Annamaria’s first stop in her exploration of town should be _The Hazeldine Hawk_. She peered through the window into a small front office that held two desks side by side. Atop each were identical, squat black typewriters; stacked metal trays; and lethal looking note spikes, though only one had any papers skewered onto it. There was no sign of any reporters or newsboys or editors wearing those odd green visor caps she always associated with newspapermen.

Annamaria knocked on the door as she opened it and stepped inside. “Hello?” she called politely.

“Yes? Who’s that?” replied a voice from the vicinity of the floor. There was a slight movement at the back of the office and Annamaria realized there was a pair of legs ending in brown boots propped up against the wall. Curious, she stepped closer to the desks and craned her neck to see an odd, white-haired woman balancing on her head and hands, her back and legs stretched straight above her.

Annamaria bent to the side and tilted her head in an effort to see the woman eye-to-eye. “May I ask why you’re standing on your head?” she asked.

“Writer’s block. Believe it or not, this works. When the blood rushes to my head, the words start to flow again. It’s Miss Doherty, isn’t it?”

“Annamaria.”

“I’m Yvonne Bae, lead reporter for the _Hawk_. Sorry we didn’t meet last night. I was… under the weather a couple weeks ago, and I can’t stay up as late as I’d like yet. Hang on.” With the fluid grace of a circus acrobat, Yvonne lowered her feet into a smooth tuck-and-roll. She finger-combed her hair back and straightened her mannish shirt, pushing the rolled sleeves up past her elbow before shaking Annamaria’s hand. “Mind if I interview you?”

“About?”

“Yourself. I like to do little profiles on the new arrivals,” she explained blithely. “Sort of a getting-to-know-you piece to introduce you to the town. It’ll save you from telling the same story to dozens of people.”

“Perhaps later,” Annamaria smiled. “I’d like to spend the day exploring, getting a feel for the place. I just wanted to pop in and take a quick gander. Newspapers have always fascinated me.”

“Allow me to give you the grand tour,” Yvonne said with a magnanimous sweep of her arm. “This is my office. That is my desk. Here I compose most of the stories that end up in print. As you can see, we’re not as fancy as some operations, but we get the job done.”

She took a large step to the left and opened a door. There was an even smaller room behind it, dominated by a substantial desk that was covered in stacks of past issues and boxes of metal type. A Mason jar on its corner was crammed full of pencils — both black lead and red wax — as well as fountain pens, rulers, quills, and a substantial set of shears. Shelves along the wall were filled with bottles of black, blue, red, and yellow ink. A half-collapsed bookcase overflowed with newspapers from Boston, Chicago, and New York.

“This is my boss’ office. Bram Hawk. He’s the founder-slash-editor of the paper. Nice man. He doesn’t come in until lunch, when he writes his editorial. He’s up late,” she explained, “running the press and getting the paper to the kids for morning deliveries. And this,” she pushed open the last door. “Is The Beast.”

The lion’s share of the _Hawk_ building was reserved for a mammoth printing press that smelled strongly of oil and ink. A conveyer belt carried the finished papers to a long table where they would be folded. In the corner sat a much smaller hand-operated machine — “For flyers and special editions,” Yvonne explained.

“It looks dangerous.” Annamaria eyed the primary press warily.

“It can be, if you’re not paying attention. All the gears and cranks. But it’s Bram’s baby. He doesn’t let anyone else touch it. Are you _sure_ you don’t have time for a quick interview?”

“Later,” Annamaria promised. “It was a pleasure to meet you, and thank you for the tour.”

“One last thing before you go,” Yvonne said, shutting the pressroom’s door. “Has someone already warned you about the wolf?”

“Oh, yes. I have no intention of straying from town, Miss Bae.”

“Good. Here’s the full story, penned by yours truly.” The reporter handed her one of the day’s papers. When she opened her reticule to take out the nickel for it, Yvonne smiled and shook her head. “This one’s complimentary. Part of your welcome wagon. And call me Yvonne.”

“Thank you, Yvonne. You know,” she said impulsively. “I’m sure we will be friends. I hope your writer’s block breaks soon.”

Out on the promenade, Annamaria considered her options. She wanted to stop at the Jade and Pearl Tea Room, but she wasn’t thirsty enough as yet to appreciate a good cup.

Perhaps the bank, to get a necessary errand out of the way…

The Hazeldine First Bank and Trust proved surprising. The front space open to the public was carpeted, for starters, with green baize that muffled her footsteps. As she stepped inside a bell tinkled softly and a distinguished dark-haired man in a gray suit looked up from an ornate mahogany desk.

“Good morning,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile and standing, smoothing a golden hand down his tailored waistcoat. “I am Rodrigo Alvarez, the bank president. It’s Miss Doherty, _n’est-ce pas_?

“ _Oui_ ,” she said. “ _Parlez-vous français_?”

The dazzling smile only increased in wattage. “It was my first tongue,” he continued in the language. “Truly, my mother’s tongue. I was born in France, sent to school in Switzerland as a boy.”

“I’ve never been to either, sadly. I’ve never even left the country. I had tutors as a child. I speak Spanish and a little German, too.”

“Marvelous!” Mr. Alvarez shifted effortlessly to Spanish. “There are many in town who will seek you out for conversation. Madame Gruben and Dr. Pendergast often have dinner together simply to speak in German. If you wish to refine your knowledge of it, they’d both be only too happy to help. Now, what can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to open a temporary account, if that’s possible,” she asked, reverting to English.

“Yes, that is possible. I am willing to extend credit and rent a saving deposit box on a short-term basis. The rate of interest on such a savings account will be very small, however,” he said. “Please, sit down, and we will go over the terms and fill out the paperwork…”

Ten minutes later, Annamaria left the bank with a significantly lighter reticule and an equally lighter heart. Being wholly independent and traveling alone was exhilarating, yes, but also rather terrifying. She’d read so many horror stories of solitary young women being robbed or conned, and she knew her fine clothes made her an instant target. It was necessary to travel with a significant amount of money, especially in the rugged West where so many businesses were cash only, but carrying it everywhere she went was nerve-wracking.

She was debating between visiting the millinery/haberdashery shop (Bobbie’s Bits ‘N Bobs), the dressmaker/tailor’s (Carlyle Clothing), and a jeweler’s with intriguing, iridescent necklaces hanging in the window (simply called The Jewelry Box) when an extremely tall blonde woman in a fuchsia dress stepped out of the Pax and practically ran toward her, full skirt billowing.

“Miss Doherty!” the woman called with an enthusiastic smile. “ _Guten morgen_! I am Hildy Gruben!”

“Hello, Miss Gruben.”

“Ah, Miss Gruben is my sister, Liesel. I am Madame Gruben — though, _bitte_ , call me Hildy.”

“I’m delighted to, so long as you call me Annamaria.”

“Of course! That is a _beautiful_ dress. Yellow suits you well. And I _love_ your parasol; I have many myself. I burn easy, as you expect. Well, I came to the Pax to see you, and when Lotte tell me you went exploring, I was afraid not to find you in time. But here you are!” She beamed proudly. “I am asking you to a ladies’ luncheon I am hosting at mine house, the Tickled Pink.”

“That magnificent pink house is yours?” But of course it was — the exuberant building perfectly matched its owner.

“ _Ja!_ Do you like it? Is it not so pretty?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything that comes close to it.”

Hildy blushed with pleased pride. “You are lovely to say that, Annamaria. Will you come to lunch? I have invited many friends.”

“I’d be delighted to. What time?”

“Eleven. Do you like vichyssoise and smoked salmon sandwiches?”

“No — I adore them.”

Hildy laughed. “I like you already. See you at eleven! I must get the soup ready!”

_What an odd but charming woman_ , Annamaria thought. _Mrs. Barton was right: the people of Hazeldine are the friendliest bunch I’ve ever met._

Smiling, she stepped into The Jewelry Box. It was a small, narrow store that smelled of metal and honeysuckle; dried bunches of the flower garnished the tables and shelves. Clear glass ornaments dangled overhead from twine braided and woven around the exposed rafters, creating the enchanting illusion of a cloud of bubbles floating over the jewelry. A pretty black teenager with cornrowed hair sat behind a podium-like counter.

“Lemme guess,” the girl said. “Hildy just asked you to lunch?” From where she sat, she had an almost entirely unobstructed view of the street through the picture window.

“Yes — will you be there, too?”

“Yep. Nellie Hoobler.” She stretched out a hand.

As Annamaria shook it, the thick white bracelet around the girl’s wrist moved. Two red eyes and a flickering pink tongue appeared. Annamaria recoiled hastily with a strangled, “ _Ack!_ ”

“Sorry about that,” Nellie said, contrite. “That’s just Nip, my corn snake. He’s completely harmless.”

“…I have a thing about snakes,” Annamaria said faintly, rubbing her hands together. “Something about the way they move…”

Nellie turned away to unwind the creature from her arm and tucked him into the pocket of her lime green dress. “I’ll remember that. Again, sorry to give you such a fright. Was there anything I could help you with? Looking for something in particular?”

“No, I just wanted to browse. You have such gorgeous jewelry. The designs are so unique.”

“Thank you.” Nellie preened slightly. “I do custom work on commission, too.” She stepped around small tables holding tiered velvet-lined boxes of rings and brooches. “Given your aversion to snakes, it would be a good idea for you to have one of these.” She lifted a fine copper chain from a wooden stand carved in the shape of a many-branched tree. “You can wear it around a wrist or an ankle, though the ankle works best, honestly. This bead here is carved from hazel wood. It’ll protect you from serpents, especially venomous ones. ”

“Are there many snakes in Hazeldine?”

“I’m afraid you aren’t going to like that answer,” Nellie said wryly, unhooking the bracelet’s latch. “May I?”

Annamaria held out her arm and let the girl fix the chain around her slender wrist. “It’s very pretty. And so light I can barely tell it’s there. What do I owe you?”

“On the house. The first thing’s always free. That’s necessary equipment if you’re going to live here.”

“I can’t possibly accept something this fine _gratis_. You should be compensated fairly for your work.”

Nellie appraised her anew. “A lady of character. I like that. Tell you what: that candy cane dress you arrived in last night? Let Blythe Carlyle make a copy of it for me, and we’re square.”

“My pleasure. And if you fancy any of my other dresses, the same deal applies.”

Annamaria’s eye wandered to a small handwritten sign reading **LOVE MAGNETS AND HOMING BRACELETS**. Another nearby sign read **EVER-LAST WARMING RINGS (NEVER BE COLD AGAIN)**.

She’d seen women hawking “magical charms” at every stop on her journey; most were old and infirm, Mexican or Native, promising cure-alls and good luck through their amulets “laden with mystical ancient power”. Most of the things looked tawdry — bright with varnish, painted feathers, and polished glass beads — or like simple string knotted around brown chicken bones. She was surprised to see such beautiful, artistic pieces making those charlatan promises. Surely Nellie didn’t need supernatural sweetener to get a sale. “…You make some interesting claims about your wares.”

“They’re not claims,” the girl said. “They’re guarantees. Everything I make does exactly what I say it does.”

“Then you’re, what, a witch?” Annamaria said lightly, smiling.

Nellie unhooked a long golden chain from her neck and somehow… _pulled_ it, like soft taffy, stretching it twice, three times the length it had been. Humming softly, the girl began winding it around her nimble fingers like a cat’s cradle, plucking and shaping it into a woven ball that gave off a pearlescent light.

Annamaria’s eyes widened.

“That’s right,” Nellie said. The metal ball hovered and spun slowly between them. “A seventh generation witch.”

Behind Annamaria, the door swung open. “Nellie, are you — damn it, Nell, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lotte demanded.

“She was skeptical of my spellwork,” the teenager retorted. “I just wanted—”

“You wanted to be a brat, that’s what. You know better. We don’t throw magic in an Outsider’s face! We ease them into it. Annamaria, this is—”

“Magic is real,” she said softly, reaching out and touching the golden ball with wonder. Awe. “Magic is real!” She whirled on Lotte, eyes glowing, grinning madly. “Magic is _real_! This is incredible! This is fantastic! What else is real? Are sea monsters? Fairies? What about ghosts? Ooh, are vampires real? Is _Dracula_ real? That book gave me such delicious chills. Are there more witches here? Can everyone in Hazeldine do impossible things? Is—”

“She seems to be handling it well,” Nellie said dryly as Annamaria babbled on excitedly.


	57. Chapter 57

“Come in, ladies!” Hildy urged, throwing wide her front door. “Annamaria, you look radiant—”

“She knows,” Lotte said. “Nellie spilled the beans. Spread the word that we don’t have to be furtive around her.”

“I’m _so_ glad I came here,” Annamaria gushed as they stepped into an immense, lushly decorated sitting room that took up almost the entirety of the ground floor. “…Oh my! Your house is _stunning_ , Hildy!”

A large circular table had been laid for lunch. Yvonne and several other ladies were already seated around it; they rose quickly to introduce themselves: Blythe Carlyle, the seamstress; Greer Perdillo, the blacksmith; Yu Jie, the owner of the Jade and Pearl Tea Room; Jessika Dupree, the laundress; Leah Ginsberg, a dark-haired young woman with leg braces and crutches.

“Hello, sugar,” said a glamorous middle-aged black woman in an aquamarine dress, the bodice and full skirt embroidered with seed pearls. A tall turban was wrapped around her head, her full lips, dark eyes, and sharp cheekbones accented by expertly-applied cosmetics. “I’m Bobbie Lacy. It’s a real delight to meet you. Such a pretty little thing — I just _love_ that dress.”

“Thank you! Are you the Bobbie of Bobbie’s Bits ‘N Bobs?”

“Sure am. Come in and take a little look-see after lunch. I’ve got a hat that could’ve been made with just you in mind. Go perfectly with that dress and those curls.” Bobbie had a deep, husky voice and talked expressively with her be-ringed hands; her long nails were painted a bright metallic gold.

“Everyone, please, sit,” Hildy encouraged warmly. “I am bringing out the soup and sandwiches and we can all get to know Hazeldine’s new addition!”

Annamaria spread her linen napkin over her lap and considered her situation. The sumptuous setting could have been lifted from any of the fine houses she had visited in New York, and some of the guests — Mrs. Dupree, Mrs. Carlyle, Miss Lacy — were dressed as exquisitely as any of the ladies of the _haute monde_.

But then there was Miss Perdillo and Yvonne, wearing mannish attire that would have shocked the sophisticated hostesses Annamaria knew. Lotte’s hair spilled from a messy bun, and Miss Ginsberg’s dress was designed for comfort rather than style, something that could be donned or doffed easily. And there was the obvious fact that several of the faces smiling back at her varied in color; Annamaria had never attended a party or dinner where the guest list wasn’t exclusively white. The servants or entertainment were often black or Asian or Latin, yes, but never those who had received invitations.

She hoped she didn’t say or do anything to offend.

“So, Annamaria,” said Jessika, once everyone’s bowls were full of cold soup and the platter of sandwiches had been passed around. “You’ve seen behind the curtain, so to speak.”

“It’s so exhilarating. I keep expecting to wake up — this is like a dream come true. Someone ought to pinch me.”

Impishly, Yvonne reached over and did just that.

“It’s just that… I’ve read so much over the years about strange creatures and witches and premonitions,” she went on, in between sips of soup. “Black dog omens and fairie rings. People falling asleep under a particular tree and waking up to find a hundred years had passed. Bilocation and mind reading and doppelgangers. Mythology and ghost stories. Men turning into animals and bringing the dead back to life…”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a reader of penny dreadfuls,” said Greer.

“I adore them. Anything fantastical or macabre. Anything with magic and high emotion. I’ve always had a lot of time to read,” she added, more subdued. “Plenty of time to fill. So I filled it with stories that got my blood pumping and heart racing. They gave me a chance to have adventures without leaving my house.” _They made me finally feel alive_ , she finished silently.

“And now you’re having your own adventure,” Lotte said.

“Yes, but when I set out, I didn’t expect to actually find magic!” Annamaria exclaimed. “I just wanted a change of scenery, to see more of the country with my own eyes. Meet interesting new people, make new friends.”

“Sugar, you came to the right place. We’re the most interesting people you are _ever_ gonna meet,” Bobbie said firmly. “We got a bit of every flavor here. You like sweet? We got sweet. You like spicy? We got that, too.”

“On that subject,” interjected Lotte. “The sign as you come into town says ‘free’ for a reason: Hazeldine is a safe haven for folks who were treated badly Outside for being true to themselves, or who had the bad luck to be anything that isn’t privileged or powerful. We don’t abide by any of the laws or customs that punish people unfairly. Everyone’s equal here: black, white, Mexican, Native, Chinese, men, women, or none of the above… We celebrate love in all its forms and we marry who we please. And we support our neighbors’ self-expression, even if it’s, well, a little left of center...”

“And to think: when I first saw the town last night, a part of me wondered if life here would be too dull.” Everyone laughed.

“Things are rarely dull in Hazeldine,” Leah Ginsberg promised. She was close to Annamaria’s age; her voice was girlish and her crooked smile welcoming. “The mayor’s constantly campaigning for community improvement projects. Seems there’s always somebody getting engaged, getting hitched, having a baby…”

“Barn-raisings and square dances and cooking contests…”

“There’s always a card game going at the Pax…”

“Musicians and carnival troupes pass through regularly…”

“And, of course, sometimes little monsters go on stealing sprees or giant wolves prowl around town,” said Yvonne nonchalantly.

“Oh, and don’t forget the solstice!”

“That’s right.”

“The summer solstice is in three days,” clarified Nellie. “Which means we’ll get a lot of ghostly activity. You might see some spooks on the streets.”

“They’re harmless,” reassured Lotte quickly.

“Usually. I’ll make you up a warding charm for your bracelet, to keep the ‘geists at bay.”

“Ghosts? Real live ghosts?” Annamaria clasped her hands together with glee. “…Well, not _live_.”

“Hasn’t met Wint yet, hmm?” Greer murmured to Lotte.

“No. For once, _he_ listened to orders.”

“And the day after the solstice,” Jessika said as she sipped her sweet tea, “our weather witch, Luisa Mariposa, is coming to town to make a storm and end our blasted drought.”

“Thank the Goddess,” Blythe said fervently. “For poor Mr. Webster’s sake. His color is just awful these days.”

“On the subject of color,” said Yu Jie. “I meant to say last night, but did not wish to interrupt your dancing with Caleb Rutledge. Did my eyes deceive me, or was that a _red_ dress you were wearing, Blythe?”

Every lady turned to stare intently at the seamstress, who flushed prettily. “Yes, it was,” she said. “And I’m working on a few more dresses in other colors. …After twelve years, I think it’s finally time for me to put away the black.”

There was a loud burst of approval and delighted encouragement. Hildy rose from her chair and went to throw her arms around Blythe in a near-suffocating embrace. Yvonne leaned close to Annamaria and whispered, “She’s been in mourning for her husband all these years. Most of us had given up hope of her ever moving on.”

Annamaria glanced at the elegant woman who looked embarrassed by all of the cheerful attention and wondered what it would be like to love someone so much it would take twelve years to mourn him.

Rather than sigh, she nibbled on another sandwich.

The clamor was dying down when a handsome pair came down the central staircase: he in a blue shirt with a matching bandanna knotted around his neck, she in a pale pink summer dress that floated around her long legs, both of them dark-skinned and amber-eyed.

“Afternoon, ladies,” the man said politely with a dimple-producing smile, felted hat in hand.

There was a chorus of “Hello, Boston,” and “Good afternoon, Mr. Drake,” from those assembled.

“Oh, honey, have you met Miss Annamaria yet?” demanded Bobbie, rising from her chair and hurrying over to grab the young man by the arm, dragging him closer to the table. “You _must_. Sugar, this is Boston Drake, one of our strapping cowboys. A transplant from Houston, Texas. Ain’t he an eyeful? Boston, this is Annamaria Doherty. She’s from New York. A big city gal — and currently unattached.”

“Uh, that’s nice,” Boston said awkwardly while Annamaria repressed a giggle. That was just about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

“Bobbie, you’re shameless,” said the woman in the pink dress. Not a condemnation, more a statement of fact.

“Who’s got time for shame?” Bobbie said archly.

The younger woman just shook her head. “Hello again, Miss Annamaria. We met last night.”

“Yes — Libby Hawk, isn’t it?”

“That’s me.”

“Any relation to Bram Hawk?”

“Unfortunately,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. “He’s my big brother. He hasn’t been charming you already, has he?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t actually met—”

“He _better_ not be sweet-talking someone else when he’s supposed to be taking Greer to dinner tonight!” exclaimed Nellie with second-degree outrage.

“Oh-ho, is _that_ so?” Bobbie demanded, whirling on the suddenly tomato-red blacksmith. “How come this is the first I’m hearing of it? Tell me you’re not wearing _that_ to dinner. _Honey_. You gotta have at least _one_ dress in your wardrobe. No? Blythe, Hildy, we need to put our heads together and get this girl gussied up…”

Sensing his cue to escape, Boston nodded politely at Annamaria and swiftly backed out of the room. At the front door, he paused to kiss Libby goodbye. It was no chaste peck on the lips. Annamaria looked away before either caught her voyeurism, but as Libby turned to go back upstairs their eyes met for a moment. The woman smiled knowingly at her and continued on her way, cool as could be.

“If Mr. Drake is Libby’s beau,” Annamaria whispered to Yvonne, “why was Miss Bobbie so quick to play matchmaker with us?”

“Boston’s not Libby’s beau. Libby doesn’t have a beau and doesn’t want one,” the reporter explained carefully. “…He’s one of her customers.”

“Customers?” Annamaria blinked in shock. “You mean she’s a—” She grappled for something better than “whore,” which felt far too vulgar for someone like Libby Hawk. “…Lady of the night?” she finished weakly.

“Yes, she is.”

Annamaria looked up to find Hildy leaning over the table, gathering plates. The hostess met her eyes and smiled. “And so am I,” she said frankly, compounding the shock. “I should have told you before lunch. Before you dined with a harlot in her house of ill repute, hmm? I know that is not something a fine lady should do—”

“To hell with ‘should’,” Annamaria blurted out, surprising everyone _and_ herself. The words had been purely reflexive, like a knee bouncing beneath a doctor’s hammer. An inevitable release after thirty-one years of pent-up frustration.

“I mean,” she floundered, “I’m tired of trying to impress society and abide by its arbitrary rules. I don’t even _like_ society. Snobbish elitists who aren’t satisfied unless you’re cowed and silent and docile. To hell with all of them! From now on, I’ll do what _I_ want, what makes _me_ happy, rather than worrying about the shoulds and shouldn’ts. And I like you, Madame Gruben, and I like your house, and I’d like to dine here again, and, and, well, anyone who thinks I should shun you can go suck an egg.”

For a moment, there was utter silence. Annamaria’s cheeks burned.

Then Nellie Hoobler stood up and started applauding. The others joined in, grins on their faces. “Bravo,” said Lotte. “That was one of the finest tirades I’ve ever heard.”

“I just _knew_ I was gonna like you,” said Bobbie, fondly pinching her cheeks and planting a resounding _smack!_ of a kiss on her forehead. “I’m your Auntie now, sugar, and that’s official. You need any mother henning, you come to Bobbie. I’m taking you under my wing.”

Magic she’d taken right in stride. But not even her own parents had ever treated her this warmly; the only people who had ever accepted and encouraged her like this were Mrs. Prouty and Samantha, and these people were almost complete strangers. After mere hours, this welcoming place already felt more like a home than New York ever had.

Tears stung her eyes. Annamaria sniffled and quickly raised her napkin to blot them before they could fall.

“It’s alright,” Bobbie said, slipping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing gently. “I know just how you feel. A feast after you’ve been starving a long time can be overwhelming.”


	58. PART FOURTEEN - CRY WOLF

**P A R T F O U R T E E N — C R Y W O L F**

“How about we finish on time tonight?” Celeste suggested. The wall clock was nearing five. Their only customer was Old Man Hogan, who was still hemming and hawing over which gardening trowel (of the three available choices) to get. “After dinner, you can go straight to bed for a change.”

“Alright.” He wasn’t about to argue. The moment the store closed, he was getting to Jenny’s as fast as his legs would carry him. There were hours to go before sunset, but he wouldn’t risk anything tonight.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

Even as he shook his head in the negative, he thought, a _shoulder rub would be nice_. That was where he carried most of his tension. That was where the pain always settled first, like a solid lump just below his neck, when he tried to fight the shift.

He could imagine how nice it would feel. Miss Preston’s hands kneading and massaging, working out the worst of the knots with firm swipes of her thumbs. The scratchiness of her lace gloves rubbing over his skin. The heat of her sinking into strained muscles, even deeper to the bones, until everything that ached was soothed and relaxed. He could see himself turning to face her, leaning closer and running his nose along her jaw as her gloved hands slid down his chest and—

Ianto shook himself out of the daze and hurried around a stacked display of paint cans, feigning an urge to straighten stock. The wolf was getting hungrier, more aroused; he had to regain his control before that arousal was too obvious to ignore.

“Mr. Hogan, they’re all basically the same thing,” he heard Celeste say on the other side of the room with a hint of exasperation.

“But this ‘un’s got a smoother, softer handle,” the customer said in a querulous voice. “It’d be nicer on the hand. …But then this un’s got a wider blade. Be easier to dig out them turnips with it.”

“You wear gloves when you garden,” she pointed out. “The smoothness of the handle is irrelevant. I think you should get the wider one.”

“…But this un’s got a sharper point to it.”

“You can sharpen any of them, Mr. Hogan! That’s the great thing about metal.”

“…Oh, yeah, you got a point there, missy. Alright, ya sold me! I’ll get this un. How many taters you want for it?”

Gently herding Old Man Hogan out, trowel in liver-spotted hand, Celeste flipped the sign to **CLOSED** with a relieved sigh. “ _Finally_. I was afraid it was going to be like the Hoe Debacle and we’d be arguing back and forth for forty minutes. Sometimes I think the man comes in here just to frustrate me.” She hesitated, expression softening. “Go to bed early tonight, alright? You’re so pale.” Before he could step back, she reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m worried about you.”

He swallowed thickly. The touch, the softness of her voice, and the kindness on her face was a dangerously potent combination. “I’ll be fine in the morning, miss. Don’t worry.”

She slipped out; he closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and started counting slowly — both to calm himself and to wait long enough for her to walk safely out of sight before he ran to Jenny’s.

He was at one hundred and three when he realized George was standing behind him. The man could move as quietly as a cat when he wanted to. “We’re going to Doc Pendergast’s,” he said decisively. “Now.”

“Please—”

“I know you don’t care for doctors, but Hermann’s one of the best. He’s a good man. And I’m not going to watch you suffer when he’s right down the street.”

“George,” Ianto pleaded, twisting to face him. “No. He can’t help me.”

The taller man frowned down at him. Not angry — saddened. Deeply troubled by the naked anguish on his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t…” Ianto bowed his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

“It pains me to see you like this. Isn’t there _something_ I can do to help?”

It was the second time in minutes someone had offered that in such a sincere tone of voice. It had been years (and years) since anyone had worried about him. In his chaotic, turbulent state, it was overwhelming: knowing both George and Celeste cared for his well-being.

When George’s arms curled around him — pulled and held him close — Ianto barely managed to contain a sob. He pressed his face to the man’s white shirt and returned the hug, shivering fitfully like a frightened horse. George smelled of old paper and freshly ground pepper, a combination Ianto found strangely calming.

“I don’t understand what’s happening to you, but I want to,” George murmured. “I care about you, Ianto. Very much. You can tell me anything and I’ll listen carefully. I have no interest in judging you. I just want to help.”

“I know. I know,” Ianto whispered. “But…”

His secret kept him alive. His secret kept him safe.

“…I need to go to Miss Jenny,” he said hoarsely. “Doc can’t help me, but she can.”

“Then it’s something magical?”

“I can’t.”

“Alright. Alright,” George said soothingly. “I won’t rush you.”

Reluctantly, Ianto drew back. Save for Avonlea, it had been a long time since anyone had hugged him. For a brief moment, he’d felt sheltered from both the world and the wolf. “Thank you,” he whispered, eyes bright. “…I won’t be back until morning. I’ll be better then.”

“Then I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll make quiche.”

He loved George’s quiche; George knew he did. Yet another kind gesture he hardly deserved. “Good night.”

“Good night, Ianto.”


	59. Chapter 59

“You’re early,” Jenny said when she opened her door.

“I’m sorry—”

“No need for that. I expected you sooner, honestly. You worry a little too much, Mr. Llewellyn. Come in.”

The interior of Jenny East’s cottage was rounded at the edges and, though there was still sunlight streaming through the circular windows, it was brightly lit by dozens of candles and lanterns.

One large room with a corner fireplace, there was very little living space in it — just a squashy bed beneath one of the windows, a solid sailor’s trunk at the foot of that, and a tall wardrobe bursting with dresses. The rest of the space was devoted to the hedgewitch’s trade: a massive apothecary case, a work table, shelves covered with jars of finished potions and powders. Knives and tools hung from the walls on hooks and brackets. The wooden floor was softened by multicolored knotted rag rugs (and plenty of cat hair). Bundles of dried herbs and flowers dangled from the rafters overhead while potted plants grew so lushly their leaves and vines spilled over shelves and grew across the walls.

“Here’s how it will go,” Jenny said in a practical tone, taking a tall glass of shimmery, mercury-like liquid off the fireplace’s hob. As it swirled and roiled, flecks of green and orange pulsed within the brew like distant stars. “You’ll make yourself comfortable on the bed and drink this down. It’ll take effect within a minute, and you’ll fall asleep. When the moon rises, you’ll shift, but you’ll remain unconscious. I’ll shutter the windows and guard the door — get a few things done around the house while you’re asleep. At dawn, once there’s no sign of the moon and you’ve shifted back, I’ll wake you. Alright?”

Ianto licked his dry lips and nodded, reaching out for the glass.

“Oh, wait, one more thing: I’m assuming your clothes weather shifting as well as Bram Hawk’s do. So you’d better undress first.”

He blinked at her. “…Pardon?” he whispered.

“Ianto, I’ve already seen everything. No need to be modest. Besides,” she added, “you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“…Er…”

The witch’s expression shifted from stoic to sympathetic. “Alright. You don’t have to strip in front of me,” she said, to his great relief. “Here,” she took a thick white towel from a chair and handed it to him. “I’ll step outside. You can put your clothes on the chair — you can even get under the quilt, if you want. Just shout when it’s safe to come back.”

It felt taboo to disrobe in a space that was so obviously feminine. To wrap a towel around his waist and lay down on an unfamiliar bed that smelled of clover and lilac. Getting under the sheets was absolutely out of the question; _that_ was a step too far. Doing so might make him feel less exposed, but it was also too intimate for him to stomach. “…You can come in.”

Not for the first time, Ianto envied the hedgewitch her calm composure. She wasn’t the least bit discomfited by this strange situation, nor the sight of a nearly nude man stretched across her quilt. “You’ve got more muscle than anyone would suspect, hidden under those threadbare clothes,” she observed. “Comfy?”

“Yes,” he lied politely.

“This brew should actually be pretty tasty. Or so I’ve been told. And it’ll do you some good; you look like you could use a solid night’s sleep. Do your best to drink it all down as quickly as possible. You’ll need the full dose for the full effect.” She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and handed him the glass. Propped up on one arm, he did as ordered.

The concoction was indeed tasty, reminiscent of raspberries and lemon. The glass was half drained when he began to feel drowsy, and he gulped quickly before the lethargy became overpowering.

“Good man,” Jenny said, taking back the glass. “Lie back, relax, and have some sweet dreams. You’re safe here.”

Ianto settled against the fat down-filled pillow and took a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered shut, his limbs became heavier and heavier, and then—

***

_Celeste is out of her mind_ , Jenny thought as she stood and went to wash the empty glass in her sink, scouring it with a handful of purity sand to ensure any lingering dregs of the potion would be nullified. She glanced over her shoulder at the figure lying peacefully oblivious, calm in a way she’d never seen him before. For a moment, she let herself admire the rangy muscles of his arms, the strong lines of his legs and dark whorls dotting his chest. The thick fans of his eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

When Ianto was awake, it was as if he exuded a reverse glamour. An invisibility that made people ignore him. She’d always thought he was plain, small, and unassuming. But now, without his conscious “do not see me” efforts, she was finally seeing the real man.

He wasn’t tall, no, but he was hardly small. Take away the rumpled clothes and the body beneath wasn’t so much skinny as it was lean and toned. And plain? Not really. His cheekbones and nose were sharp and angular in an intriguing, vulpine way (ironic for a werewolf, that), and his jaw was solid, square, and very masculine.

And his pure black curls, short beard, moustache, and eyebrows were notable for a man his age; Jenny had been shocked when she first heard he was fifty-four because he certainly didn’t look it, but now that she knew _why_ he looked half his age it was astounding that the rest of the town didn’t comment on it more. All shifters aged slowly compared to average humans, but weres must be especially blessed on that count. There were a few lines etched around his mouth and icy blue eyes, yes, but those were carved by worry and a sorrowful disposition more than by the hand of Father Time.

All told, Ianto wasn’t the kind of man she was usually attracted to — she liked bold and confident types rather than the wounded, quiet ones — but she’d be tempted to make an exception if he ever showed some interest.

Not that _that_ was likely. It was as plain as day that he was already carrying a sizable torch for Celeste; Jenny had seen the way his eyes and voice softened when he looked at her, the unconscious but eloquent body language between them.

Actually…

The hand drying the inside of the glass stilled as she thought back to her recent visits to Godfrey’s Goods, when George, to her surprise, had been downstairs sorting shipments and stocking shelves alongside his employees. There had been plenty of unspoken communication happening between Ianto and Godfrey, too. The pair moved around one another comfortably, smiled at each other fondly, shared telling glances when customers had turned away…

_I wonder,_ Jenny mused. Perhaps she and Ianto had something in common after all. Perhaps he, too, was drawn to women _and_ men.

How could she go about bringing that up in their next conversation? Not that it was any of her business how Ianto Llewellyn leaned, of course, but…

It would be nice to have someone like-minded to talk to about her dual inclinations; someone who _understood_.

She’d brought it up with Libby and Seung before a couple times, but in those cases it wasn’t _quite_ the same. Libby didn’t care about the gender (or lack thereof) of her partners, but while she understood lust she couldn’t — and didn’t want to — comprehend love. Seung enjoyed bedding both men and women, but he definitely leaned more toward men; when it came to deeper feelings he was drawn solely in that direction, too. In her teen years, Lotte had “stepped out” with a few boys, but the only person she’d ever loved was Rosanna. As far as Jenny knew, there was no one else in town who felt exactly the way she did about both bedding and wooing. If Ianto was like her, at least she’d feel less alone.

Wasn’t life just full of surprises? Three weeks ago, Ianto had been a polite yet blurry face in the background of her life. A kind, bland person she only exchanged essential pleasantries with. Now, he was quickly becoming the most intriguing man in town. A risk-taking hero who saved little girls from falling walls. A were-creature so rare even the fae considered him a fairy tale. A mysterious man with layers and secret depths… 


	60. Chapter 60

The sound of a key clicking in the front door’s lock made George turn mid-pace and hurry down the book-lined staircase. It was barely twilight, and Ianto had said he’d be back in the morning, but perhaps Jenny’s elixirs and powders had worked more quickly than he’d anticipated—

“Oh,” George said when he saw Celeste locking the door behind her, basket dangling from one elbow.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she said archly.

“Sorry. I thought it was Ianto coming back.”

“Coming back? Where did he go? To Doc’s?” The pale skin between her eyebrows pinched with concern.

“No, to Jenny’s. He insisted Doc would be of no help.”

“I _knew_ he was sick. He kept swearing he was just tired, but I didn’t like how glazed his eyes were, how drawn his face was.”

“He said Jenny will cure him tonight, but he won’t tell me _what_ she’s curing,” George said, leaning back heavily against the counter. “It’s like he’s afraid of my reaction.”

“…George,” Celeste said slowly, “everyone in town knows how difficult your mother’s illness was on you. Perhaps he’s downplaying whatever’s ailing him because he doesn’t want to remind you of that.”

That _would_ be just like Ianto. The man would twist himself into pretzels to keep everyone else comfortable. “It doesn’t stop me from worrying about him, though,” George said, exasperated. “If anything, it makes me worry _more_.”

“Me, too,” she agreed, setting aside her basket and leaning on the counter next to him. “…I think we need to start doing a better job of looking after him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Ianto would literally work himself to death if we let him. When I offer to do anything for him, he always demurs and insists on taking more than his fair share. You give him new clothes, and he promptly gives them to someone else. The man has an obsession with doing right by others at his own expense.”

“So what do you suggest we do?”

“We’re going to have to get sneaky. When we do a favor for him, we have to couch it in such a way that he thinks it’s a favor _for us_. I’ll arrange it so he takes more breaks throughout the day, or does tasks that are less taxing. You should start making more of his favorite dishes at meals. Come up with some woodworking projects he’d like to do — I know he truly enjoys carpentry. Maybe Yvonne has an old violin she’d part with; he’s a fantastic musician, and I’m sure he’d like to play again…”

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?” George asked shrewdly, arms crossed over his chest.

“He’s a good man,” she said without hesitation, looking up at him. “And he deserves to be happier. It hurts to see him denigrate himself so much. Work so hard. I wish he was as kind to himself as he is to everyone else.”

“You’ve hit it right on the head,” George murmured, sighing. “Alright, sneaky it is. …Why did you come back tonight, by the way? Thought you were eating at the Pax.”

“I did. But it’s a pie night, and I was hoping a lemon meringue would perk Ianto up.” She whisked the towel off the basket and held it up for appraisal. “I asked Josie to mix some ‘strong constitution’ into it.”

“We’ll have to make sure he gets a large slice with lunch tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should have a piece tonight. You’re looking a little haggard yourself.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

“I’m serious — are you coming down with something?” Celeste reached up to touch his forehead. “…Are you feverish? I can’t really tell through these gloves.” She yanked the right off and repeated the action before he could pull away. “You don’t _feel_ overly warm—”

“Careful!” He stepped out of reach. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get a nasty vision? Touching me skin-to-skin?”

“…Huh, I didn’t really think about it.” Strange that she hadn’t: after the unpleasant brush with Cottonwood Webster, she’d gone out of her way not to touch anybody else, the potential repercussions looming large in her mind. Yet with George, she didn’t think about it at all, didn’t even hesitate to reach out to him. Ianto, either, now that she recalled their farewells not so long ago.

Perhaps her gift only sparked in moments of weakness: when she was tired, like the night she saw Ianto’s mother, or startled, as had happened with Cotton. Perhaps it laid dormant when she was calm.

She could hope, anyway.

“Did you feel anything from me?” she asked, curious. “With your empathy, I mean.”

“No. Like I said, you don’t project.”

“Not even when I’m touching you?”

“Not a brief, businesslike touch like that, no. If you were screaming bloody murder at me like you usually do and slapped me, _that_ might do something.”

“You want to test—”

“No. I won’t let you slap me in the name of science. …Do you want to come upstairs for some pie?”

“Alright. I’ve got time for a slice before I go to Jenny’s.”

“Given his caginess, it might not be a good idea to check in on Ianto—”

“I’m not. At least, that’s not the primary reason for my going. This was arranged days ago. I’m helping her with a night harvest, to pay off a debt for some sleeping powder.”

“You’re not sleeping well?”

“Not peacefully, no,” she said carefully as she followed him up the stairs.


	61. Chapter 61

Bram Hawk climbed the back stairs leading up to the apartment behind the smithy, the steps creaking beneath his boots. Shifting the bouquet of wildflowers to his other hand, he knocked and swept off his flat cap.

“Good evening, Miss—” he began smoothly as the door swung open, only to stop short in complete shock.

The woman standing before him was clearly still Greer Perdillo, as tall and impressively built as always. But the blacksmith had never looked so regal or queenly, with her thick brown hair falling in soft waves over her broad shoulders, her dark eyes darker with touches of kohl, her generous mouth painted a deep red. And he’d never, _never_ seen her in that sapphire gown before.

He would have remembered. Especially the way it framed her ample chest and showcased the swells of her bared biceps.

While he stared openly at her, a slow, pleased smile spread across her face. “Are those for me?” she asked, gesturing at the flowers forgotten in his hand.

“Uh. Yes. Yes, these are for you,” he stuttered, thrusting them toward her like some bashful schoolboy.

“Thank you. I love cornflowers.” She plucked one from the bouquet, snapped the stem off short, and tucked it into the hair just above her ear. “Let me put these in water and then we can go. Is the Pax alright? Josie said she had a special dessert planned for us.”

“The Pax is just fine,” he said, trying to regain his composure. He saw far more of Greer’s figure on a daily basis, with her close-fitting trousers and half-buttoned shirts, and yet something about the way she moved in that dress was _extremely_ pleasant to watch. The sway and swish was downright mesmerizing.

It was also clear when they descended the stairs — Bram leading the way as there wasn’t room to walk side-by-side — that Greer was as unaccustomed to moving in a dress as he was to seeing her in one. Every other step she trod on the hem and had to pause to lift the skirt a little higher. By the time she reached the bottom, she was visibly annoyed until he offered her his arm; in an instant, her face brightened and she took his elbow with a delighted smile.

“That is a _very_ lovely dress,” he said as they strolled toward the bustle and noise of the Pax.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “…It’s actually one of Bobbie’s. Well, the skirt is, at least. Blythe and Hildy altered the top quite a bit, since I’m…”

“More robust?” he said.

Greer laughed. “Yes, that. And Hildy helped with my hair. And Bobbie insisted on the kohl and rouge and… I probably shouldn’t be saying any of this.” _Great job, girl,_ she thought, exasperated with herself. _Immediately ruin the moment. Tell him that you’re incapable of looking this nice without the intervention of an entire team._

“You can say whatever you want to say,” Bram assured, holding the door open for her. “That’s one of the things I like the most about you: how plainly you speak. Your forthright honesty.”

“Really? You actually _like_ that I’m blunter than a hammer?” Was Bram Hawk truly leading her to one of the small tables for two in the dimly-lit corner? Pulling out her chair for her, like she was a fine lady?

Or was she going to wake in the next instant to discover the last two days had been a fantasy brought on by heatstroke?

“I’m a journalist. I place a high value on the truth. So,” he offered her the basket of rolls. “Tell me about yourself. I know you’re a local.”

“Yep. First generation. My mother’s from New York, and Papa’s Italian. He was working as a blacksmith and boxing for extra money when he went to a carnival and saw Mother performing. She’s a strongwoman. He likes to say it was love at first sight for him. In one of her acts, she offers to lift anyone from the audience over her head, and Papa practically threw himself on stage. He’s not a small man, mind you, but Mother hefted him up all the same, and afterwards he begged to call on her after the show.

“They were married within a month, and when the carnival decided to head out West, Papa joined up as a roustabout and did some boxing against customer challengers. Mother was pregnant with my brother Sergio when the carnival passed through Hazeldine, and they decided to put down roots for a while to start a family. I came along a couple years later.”

“Did they return to the nomadic carnival life? Your parents and brother? I’ve never met them.”

“Sergio left first, when I was fifteen. He wanted to see the rest of the country and joined up with a traveling circus. A few years later, he wrote to say he and some friends wanted to build a carnival park in New York, with game booths and a sideshow and a carousel. Mother had been homesick for years, so she and Papa went out to help him make it a going concern. I get a letter every couple of months. They’re all doing well, and the park’s a big success.”

“And you’ve never wanted to join them?”

Greer shrugged. “Not really. Hazeldine is my home. I’m needed here, and I like my work. I’ve never had the wanderlust the rest of the family has. And what about you? What’s your back story?”

“Well, I was born and raised in a little place called Haven, Massachusetts. It’s a mostly black community established by the Van Horns, wealthy abolitionists. They spent their entire fortune buying as many slaves as they could at coastal markets before they were shipped South to the plantations. Then they emancipated them and set them up with their own homes in Haven. Mother’s parents, my Grandma Cinta and Grandpa Peter, were two of those lucky ones, and that side of the family and the Van Horns have been close neighbors ever since.

“As for the other side of the family, my paternal grandfather John escaped slavery as a boy and ran West, where he ended up marrying an Oglala woman. Her family called him Stooping Hawk, so he became John Hawk. It’s through Grandma Ola Winnie’s blood that I got my shifting magic.

“During the War, my father decided to join up with one of the few black regiments. When they were disbanded, he found himself in Haven where he met Mother.”

A pair of plates hovered toward them; a moment later, Wint materialized. “Pardon me for intrudin’,” the ghost said as he set down their steaks with a wink. “Hope it’s rare enough for you, Bram. You two enjoy your night,” he said meaningfully, then disappeared.

“And what brought you and Libby out here?” Greer prompted as they cut into their meat.

“When I was thirteen, I shifted for the first time. Just another drastic change brought about by puberty, really,” he grinned. “It took everyone by surprise except Father, who had grown up seeing his cousins turn into bears whenever they felt like it. Since neither Grandpa John nor Grandma Ola Winnie can read or write, Father had to travel all the way back home to Dakota to ask them for advice on what the family should do. Massachusetts isn’t the sort of place where a grizzly bear would blend in, after all.

“He was gone for almost a year, but he wrote back to us constantly so we wouldn’t worry. I did my best to ignore the urge to turn into a bear every time I was angry or frustrated and got on with my schooling. Thank God I’m not a were and I don’t _have_ to shift once a month.

“When Father got back, we had a lot of long talks about my options. I could choose to ignore my magic and try to live solely as a man. Stay in the East and become a reporter like I wanted to; of course, I’d have to submit articles to the bigger papers and journals via the mail, since few even in the North would knowingly publish a black man’s words. If I wanted to actually work in an office, I’d have to settle for writing for the little gazette in Haven, which is even smaller than Hazeldine.

“Or I could go West and embrace what I was to live as a shifter, either with my Grandma’s people or another accepting community.

“That’s a lot to lay on a fourteen-year-old boy’s shoulders, so I decided to wait a few years before I made any big decisions. I studied and wrote and read. Lived as normally as I could, even though there were days when I itched to shift.

“Finally, that itch just became too powerful. It felt wrong to keep denying half of myself. I told my parents I’d decided I wanted to go West, at least for a while, to try my luck in a place where I could be true to myself.

“I _thought_ I’d be going alone, but the moment Lib heard my plan, she demanded to go with me. Mother had been hounding her pretty relentlessly to marry a nice young man down the street who’d been trying to court her for over a year, and Lib wasn’t having any of that.”

“So how did you find out about Hazeldine?”

“Grandma Ola Winnie is distantly related to the Tupelos, actually,” he said, surprising her. “Liberty and I are fourth cousins to Will and Hawley, if I’m remembering my family tree correctly. Grandma had gotten word to them about my situation, and they’d written to us not long after Father returned to offer me a place here. So Libby and I packed our trunks, got on a train, and… Voila.”

“Think you’ll ever go back East?”

Bram shook his head firmly and her heart rose. “I’ve got everything I want right here. My own paper, good food, friendly neighbors who don’t mind seeing me furry now and then. Nice, honest ladies to dine with…”

They finished their steaks and baked potatoes. Bram ordered another bottle of wine. They talked about how Greer’s new apprentice was faring, Miss Doherty, the wolf. What it was like to cast magic, how it felt to shift into a huge animal. How different it was growing up a younger/older sibling.

The more they talked, the more relaxed Greer became. This felt easy and natural, not at all as awkward and embarrassing as she’d feared. She wasn’t stumbling over her words; wasn’t anxiously analyzing each one before she said it. And Bram was smiling at her as he listened intently. He was meeting her eyes and showing sincere interest. He laughed at her clumsy jokes and asked questions.

Wint returned with their special dessert: a crème brûlée, which he lit with a flourish and a match that seemed to materialize from nothing. They both _ooh_ -ed and _ahh_ -ed appreciatively and told him to thank Josie for the fancy treat.

Greer was finishing her third glass of merlot and feeling more than a little warm when Seung Bae convinced Jeb Dunne to play a melody of his own composing. It was a soulful, slightly melancholy tune that still had a magnetic rhythm.

“Dance with me?” Bram asked.

“I’m not that good,” she admitted, blushing.

“Perfect. Neither am I. We’re well matched. I’ll step on your toes, you can step on mine. Come on.” His hand closed around hers and pulled her up from her chair as a few others joined them in the space cleared for dancing.

It wasn’t so much dancing as swaying, but Greer didn’t care one bit. Because it was an excuse to lean against Bram Hawk, who had put an arm around her waist and held her hand tightly, unafraid of her responding grip. She was tall for a woman, but he was tall for a man, and she found that, this close, her eyes were level with his chin. If she stretched just a bit, she’d be able to kiss his clean-shaven cheek…

The music ended and she reluctantly drew back as everyone applauded the pianist bowing from the bench.

“Since we’ve finished our wine, shall we take a walk along the promenade? Admire the new lights?” Bram suggested.

“That would be nice.”

He set a slow pace, mindful of how unaccustomed she was to long skirts. With the breeze wafting down from Grandfather, the dry heat wasn’t too oppressive. And with his belly full of Josie Barton’s delicious food, his head buzzing pleasantly from a fine bottle of merlot, and a pretty lady at his elbow, Bram was feeling mighty good about life.

“I’m looking forward to the rain coming back,” he said. “Do you have any idea how itchy it is to wear a full fur coat in this sort of heat?”

“I can imagine. I think the only two who will be disappointed by the break in the drought are Hammer and Tongs. For them, the hotter and dryer it is, the better.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered. About witches and their familiars. Can you actually talk to them? Understand them?”

“Well, Hammer and Tongs aren’t really familiars,” she explained carefully. “I haven’t done a binding with them.”

“A binding?”

“It’s a ceremony that weaves a familiar’s life energy with yours. That’s how witches can use familiars to amplify their magic, and it’s why familiars live so much longer than their species usually do. A binding makes a familiar a part of the witch, sort of like having another, much smaller body and mind, and it enables them to become a living storage container for excess magic. Sort of like a battery that breathes. Does any of this make sense?”

“It’s perfectly clear to me. So, why haven’t you made the salamanders your true familiars?”

“It’s complicated. For one, the idea of a binding has always bothered me. It feels awfully mercenary. Using another living creature as a tool? Taking their energy to spellcast? Hammer and Tongs help me in the forge, yes, but they _choose_ to. It’s not because they have to — because of a magical chain between us. I can’t make them do anything they don’t want to do, so they’re more like partners than objects to be used.”

“But the familiars still benefit from the arrangement, don’t they?” Bram asked. “They get an exponentially longer lifespan. The magic keeps them healthy and strong.”

“True,” Greer conceded. “And it makes them infinitely more intelligent than average animals, too. Quince, Luisa’s shrike, has a wicked sense of humor.”

“So you _can_ communicate with them?”

“Not exactly in words. It’s more like images and feelings that somehow, through the magic, translate into coherent thoughts. It’s all very mystical. Anyway, I’ve made it clear to Hammer and Tongs that I won’t do a binding without their express permission. It’s entirely up to them. If, someday, they tell me they want to be my familiars, then I’ll do it. Otherwise, I won’t. Just because I’m a witch doesn’t give me the right to make decisions for someone else. Everyone’s entitled to their own freedom — even salamanders.”

She looked over to find Bram smiling at her with a warmth that made her toes curl in her boots. “Wish more of the world had that conviction,” he said, slowing to a stop. They were at the north end of Main Street, Grandfather a looming presence before them, just shy of the last buzzing streetlamp. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you are?”

“Yes, you complimented my dress,” she said faintly, free hand clenching at her side.

“Not the dress. The dress is nice, yes, but I mean you. You’re beautiful no matter what you’re wearing. And not just because your hair gleams in the sun, and your eyes have flecks of gold and cinnamon in the iris…”

His hand rose. He lightly traced his fingertips from the cornflower above her ear to her chin. “Not only because the line of your jaw is so regal, and your arms are so powerful they can barely be contained by sleeves.” He grinned cheekily, hands curling around her well-developed biceps. “You’re beautiful physically, yes, but more than that. You have beautiful thoughts. Beautiful beliefs. You’re kind, and clever—”

Greer took firm hold of his collar and pulled him down into a clumsy but extremely passionate kiss. She wound her arms around his neck and shoulders, clutching at his shirt as she balanced on her toes, until he recovered from his initial surprise and began responding with equal enthusiasm. A steadying arm around her waist, he buried his free hand in her hair and adjusted the angle of their mouths, kissing her until they were both desperate for air.

_Good Lord!_ he thought dazedly as they broke apart, gasping. This titanic force of passion was just down the street all these years? How goddamned blind _was he_?

“Come home with me,” Greer said — no, ordered — and he truly could’ve been knocked down with a feather.

“We don’t have to rush,” he rushed to assure, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

“To hell with not rushing. I’ve waited two years for you to notice me. And if you expect to say all of the things I’ve been wishing you’d say, only to leave me at my door with a kiss on the hand and walk away like a gentleman, you better think twice.” She took his hand and began _marching_ toward the smithy, skirt lifted high above her stomping boots.

“I had every intention of doing this right,” he said, hard put to keep pace with her. “I was going to take you out for more dinners, escort you to parties, go dancing, drink a dozen cups of tea—”

“I don’t really care for tea.”

“Coffee, then. It was going to be a long and polite process to prove to you I’m interested in more than just your body—”

“ _Everybody’s_ interested in me for everything _but_ my body,” Greer said. It was practically a lament. They reached the stairs and she took the steps two at a time in her impatience. At the door, she finally hesitated. “You _are_ interested in my body, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “God, yes. Jesus, Greer, you’re built like a Greek goddess. Slap a shield on your arm and you’re the spitting image of Athena.”

She grinned, a crooked and feral smile, grabbed the front of his waistcoat, and yanked him inside.

The following minutes were a disorienting blur of shed clothing and demanding hands. He lost his tie and waistcoat just inside the door; they both tugged off their boots as they stumbled down the hall. Greer dragged him to her bedroom, tore open his shirt with a spray of buttons, and unceremoniously shoved him back onto the bed with a pinwheeling of arms and undignified squawk. He pushed himself up to find her already fumbling with his belt, chest heaving and cheeks red.

“Good Lord, woman,” he said, and she looked up at him through her tangled hair with that devilish grin again. “Are we going to make love or are you going to eat me?”

“Why won’t this damn thing come loose?” she muttered.

“Slow down a bit,” he suggested, catching her by the arms and pulling her into another kiss.

“Maybe I don’t want to go slow,” she countered when she pulled back, eyebrow arching. The end of his belt finally slipped free of the hook and she tugged it from the loops of his trousers, the leather sliding out with a slithering, serpentine hiss. “Help me with these bodice laces. Why the hell do other women put up with this nonsense?”

“It _does_ make your breasts look amazing,” he said with the air of a connoisseur, tugging the ribbons loose with firm plucks of his fingertips. As more and more pale skin became visible, there was a corresponding stiffening within his unbuttoned trousers.

“Better than they look in my usual shirts?” She’d unbuttoned the skirt enough that it was slowly sliding down from her waist, revealing the lace-trimmed shift beneath that ended at mid-thigh. Ample, thick thighs…

“Uh, what was the question?” he asked, licking his lips. The bodice hung forgotten before him, his eyes drawn to the dark patch of hair visible through the thin, peachy silk of the shift.

In a flurry of quick movements, Greer pulled the loosened bodice and shift over her head, stepped out of the satin skirt puddled around her feet, and tackled Bram with enough force to make him grunt, knocking him back flat against the bed to straddle him.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” she said huskily, mouth at the side of his neck. He ran his hands up her bare back, marveling at the lines of firm muscle across her shoulders, the hard curves and swells of her arms. He cupped one full breast in his palm and squeezed, drawing a shaky moan from her.

“Confess away. I’m clearly a captive audience,” he said, rolling his thumb over her nipple. That made her shiver.

“I’m a virgin.”

He’d suspected, given how unpracticed her kisses were, though there was nothing about her that was shy and uncertain. “Alright.”

She stilled against him. “…Just ‘alright’?”

“All it means is I need to be a little more careful. Take the time to make sure this doesn’t hurt you.” He swept her dark hair over her shoulder and kissed her. “Tell me what you like, what you don’t. Be as honest and forthright as you always are.”

“I can do that,” she said, smiling against his lips. “Just don’t treat me like spun glass, yeah? I’m a big, strong girl. And I like a good workout.”


	62. Chapter 62

Jenny straightened from her crouch over the jasmine, shears in hand, and squinted down the moonlit path at the approaching figures. Celeste she had been expecting, but not—

“Good evening, Mr. Godfrey,” she called, hurrying to the front gate to meet them. “You’re looking fearsome tonight,” she added, nodding at the shotgun in his hands. “Going out with the posse, are you?”

The large, cantankerous man snorted derisively. “Hardly. I just wanted to make sure Celeste arrived safely, since she refuses to carry a gun—”

“It’s unnecessary,” Celeste interjected. Clearly this was an ongoing argument. “I can still see Main Street’s lights from here. It’s not as if I’m hiking out to Grandfather or the Tran farm.”

“So long as that wolf is still prowling about, you shouldn’t be stepping a foot outside of town without a weapon.”

“Jenny’s got dozens of wards wound around this place! Surely it won’t come close to so much magic—”

“Miss East,” George said loudly over Celeste, “could you fly her back to the Pax when you’re done? I’m happy to pay for that. And I’ll be very _unhappy_ if I find out she walked back alone.”

“George, I’m not a child!”

“You’re acting like one! Will a dollar cover it?”

“Jen, don’t you dare—”

“Your birthday’s in April, isn’t it?” Jenny asked George, seemingly apropos of nothing.

He nodded. “April 3rd.”

“That means your ruling planet is Mars then,” she said thoughtfully, taking a small vial from her pocket. “Give me seven hairs and it’s a deal.”

While Celeste glowered at them both, they shook hands and George bent low. The hedgewitch plucked seven brown strands from the shopkeeper’s head and tucked them into her vial. “She’ll be back at the Pax no later than ten.”

He nodded, satisfied, before his eyes strayed to the shuttered window of the cottage behind her. “Ianto said he was coming to see you—”

“He’s sleeping,” Jenny said. “Quite peacefully. So long as nobody disturbs him, he’ll be one hundred percent come morning.”

“Good. Good. Well, good night then, Miss East. Celeste.”

“Thanks,” Celeste muttered, lightly slapping Jenny’s arm as George turned and headed back to town with the shotgun resting against his shoulder. “Thanks for ignoring my wishes and treating me like I’m a mental incompetent who can’t make my own decisions.”

“If I hadn’t agreed, he wouldn’t have left,” Jenny said, somewhat apologetic, as she handed Celeste a basket filled with empty jars, a pair of canvas gloves, and her own set of shears. “He would’ve just sat there on the front step with that gun and waited till we were done to walk you back. And he does have a point.”

“You’re serious?”

“As the grave. That wolf _could_ be dangerous, and there’s no need for you to take unnecessary risks just because you like riling up George Godfrey. C’mon, let’s get started. These are aptly-named moonflowers. Snip them here, about an inch below the blossoms, and put what you prune into one of the jars. Leave half of the flowers for the moths. Do the same with those bushes there, and anything that’s blooming in this flowerbed here.”

Time ticked past with the only sounds the enthusiastic chirping of crickets and the sharp clicking of their shears. The light of the huge, pink moon was so bright the women could see every leaf and petal before them. Jenny stepped around a lacy spider web that glowed pearlescent between two rosebushes, watching the fat-bottomed, mustard yellow weaver hanging at its center delicately pick her way across the strands to a trapped and buzzing green horsefly. The alluring perfume from the night-blooming plants was a heady combination, and more than once she had to abandon a flower when a hungry moth alighted on it just before she harvested it.

Her mother’s words were always with her on nights like this. “We do no harm,” Melissa East had taught her, in her gentle but adamant way. “Not to the world, not to the creatures in it, and not to the innocent. We take only what we need, and we give back as much as we can. We’re caretakers, baby. We’re here to look after the land we live on and the people we share it with. We physick the ill. We teach the ignorant. We bring new life into the world when it’s wanted, but we also prevent it from kindling when it’s not. We listen, and we council, but we can’t judge too harshly. Remember that ignorance and hatred leads to evil and violence.”

“But what if we’re faced with evil and violence?” Jenny had asked once when she was just a girl. “Do we _still_ do no harm?”

“Well,” her mother had conceded with a smile. “We do no harm as long as we can, but we don’t take any of that shit, either. Sometimes, putting a quick end to early trouble prevents future harm befalling someone else. You can dedicate your life to peace and still fight back when you have to, baby.”

Melissa East had absolutely lived by her words. She’d died by them, too — but there was an odd sort of solace to be found in that, not to mention pride. Her mother had been a good, strong, upright woman, and the entire town would always know that.

“Is he really alright?”

Jenny turned to look at Celeste, kneeling amongst sage and baby’s breath. “What?”

“Ianto.”

“He’s just fine. I promise. Right now, he’s sleeping like a prince. A king, even.”

Celeste breathed in deeply, shoulders slumping as if a weight had fallen from them, and reached for the next herb.

“You should tell him.”

The woman froze like a statue. “…Tell him?”

“Celeste, you can try to ignore it. Pretend the emotion isn’t there. But that won’t make it disappear. You can’t will yourself out of love. Believe me.”

“I’m _not_ in love,” Celeste scoffed, voice a pitch higher than usual. “Just because I’ve had a couple dreams? Dreams I don’t _want_ to be having, by the way, that are extremely uncomfortable and confusing. You said it yourself — my body’s just craving something. It’s a purely physical, unthinking—”

“If it was purely physical, you wouldn’t worry about him like this. You wouldn’t sag with relief when you hear he’s alright. His name wouldn’t be so soft in your mouth. He wouldn’t be such an unavoidable presence in your thoughts.”

Celeste turned away sharply. “Please, stop. You have no idea how complicated this is.”

_Has she noticed the tenderness between George and Ianto, too?_ Jenny wondered. Celeste was almost as observant as she was. Perhaps she thought her affection was one-sided. That Ianto couldn’t reciprocate. So many Outsiders were trapped in binary thinking, unaware that there were plenty of people capable of loving beyond a single gender — beyond a single person, even. “Celeste—”

“No, Jenny. Not tonight.” She stood, brushing down her skirt. “I think you’d better take me back to the Pax now.”

Sighing, Jenny tugged off her work gloves and dropped them in her basket of cuttings. “I’m sorry for overstepping. Stay right there while I grab my broom.”

Celeste nodded stiffly, arms crossed over her chest, and stared out over the garden fencing that glittered with charms.

As she locked the door and activated the broom’s levitation spell, Jenny tamped down a spike of unease. She’d promised Ianto that she’d stand guard throughout the night; this was going against her word.

But she’d also given George her word, and the flight to and from town would only take a handful of minutes. The windows were shuttered and latched from the inside, the only door was securely locked, and the werewolf on her bed wouldn’t wake without magical interference.

What could happen in five minutes?


	63. Chapter 63

“Oh my God,” Bram groaned, rolling onto his back with an out-flung arm to stare dazedly up at the ceiling. His broad chest heaved as he panted. “Good Lord,” he added for good measure.

“I know. That was…” Beside him, Greer shoved sweat-damp hair from her face and blew out a gusty breath. “…Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it always like that?”

“Rarely.”

She looked over at him. “I just gave you a perfect opportunity to boast, and instead you’re honest. Goddess, that is _so_ attractive.” She nipped at his earlobe and slid an arm across his chest.

“How’s this for honesty: I’m gonna need a few more minutes to recover. You wore me out, warrior woman.”

“Really? I feel like I could lift a wagon. I haven’t been this energized in _months_.”

“Maybe there’s a succubus way back in your family tree.”

“Maybe,” Greer snickered, burying her face in the pillow. She was still grinning when she resurfaced. “I should’ve ravished you ages ago.”

“I should’ve begged you to ravish me ages ago,” he countered fervently. “Greer, I’m sorry it took me this long to really see you. I was a blind idiot.”

“Yep,” she agreed, lips popping around the ‘p’. “But you’re well on your way to making it up to me.”

“On my way, huh?”

“Uh-huh. A few more nights — twenty, thirty, maybe — like tonight and I’ll forgive you completely. Probably.”

“Probably? _Probably_?” He grabbed the pillow and, with mock outrage, thwacked her with it. She yanked it away from him and returned in kind.

Laughing and squealing, they grappled and tussled over the downy weapon until feathers filled the air and the sheets were a knotted mess beneath them. Greer ultimately found herself facing the wall and clutching the top of the headboard, Bram’s chest flush against her back, his large hands on her arms, his thick legs pinning hers.

“Mercy?” he asked in a velvety tone that made her shiver. She made a half-hearted attempt to wriggle free and turn to face him. He just pressed closer, his hands closing inescapably around her hips. He drew apart her legs and let the head of his cock slip between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation and pushed back, forcing him deeper into the folds of her sex.

“Mercy?” he asked between labored breaths, pumping into her hard and sure as she hung from the headboard, head bowed and back bent beneath him. She could only moan in response, knees dimpling the mattress and feet tangled in the disheveled bedclothes.

“Mercy?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, filling her again and again, driving himself against slick flesh that ached with sensitivity and pulsed slowly, then sharply, with waves of mounting pleasure…

“Mercy?” he asked, fingers sliding down to caress just above where he entered her, rolling over the swollen bud of her clitoris.

“Mercy!” she screamed as she came, head flinging back. Bram pounded once more through the shuddering convulsions, following her in release with a throaty growl. They both slumped, graceless, dizzy, and lightheaded in the aftermath.

“I’m gonna need you to do that to me at least a hundred more times,” Greer announced some time later.

“Not tonight, I hope, because I don’t have anything left to give,” Bram replied faintly.

“We can spread it out over a few nights. And days. Goddess, now I understand why the ladies of the Tickled Pink love their job so much.”

“Greer, please,” he begged, voice strained. “Don’t bring up my sister while we’re in bed together.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” With a languid hand, she reached over and plucked a fluffy white feather from his hair. “…You also owe me a new pillow.”

“I’ll buy you a dozen pillows. As soon as I can stand up again. Tomorrow. Or the day after that…”


	64. Chapter 64

Seung stalked toward Jenny’s cottage stiffly, with none of his usual fluid grace. He’d spent the last twelve hours hunting the wolf with Luther Dupree, Boston Drake, and James Campbell, and despite all of their combined tracking skills the damned thing had eluded them completely.

Proof enough that it was no mere animal. That magic was certainly mixed up in this. All day, he had recklessly expended energy casting luck that did nothing but sour, pushing himself past his usual limits. And now his inborn magic was too weak to cure the throbbing migraine pounding behind his eyes. If he didn’t get some amelioration — and soon — he was going to be blind and insensate for at least a day, if not two.

Wincing in the bright moonlight, he hurried through the garden gate, stepped over a cat dozing on the front step, and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Jen, it’s Seung. Jen? I just need a migraine elixir. I _really_ need a migraine elixir. Jen?”

There was light flickering beneath the door and through the keyhole. It wasn’t like the hedgewitch to go out and leave candles lit, not with the amount of dried herbs and irreplaceable, flammable papers she had inside.

“Jen?” He tried the doorknob and found it locked. Perhaps she’d had another evening of boozing — that had been happening more often of late — and was too drunk or deeply asleep to hear him.

Well. He didn’t have a lot of options. Jenny was the only one in town who had concoctions that were both safe and effective for fae to use. He knew right where the bottle he needed was kept, and he had an extra key she’d given him years ago. Whether she was out or asleep, he could just slip in, take what he needed, and go. He’d discuss payment with her tomorrow.

He found the right key on the ring he kept clipped inside his waistcoat, pushed the door open, stepped over the threshold—

And froze, eyes fixed on the large black wolf lying across Jenny East’s bed.

No.

He couldn’t be seeing this.

It was a hallucination brought on by the migraine.

It had to be.

The wolf he’d spent the day searching for couldn’t be sleeping in Jenny’s cottage.

He took a single step closer, the surreal scene slowly solidifying. There was a white towel crumpled on the floor beside the bed. The wolf lay on its side, muzzle and paws pointing toward the door. Its side rose and fell steadily with each calm, silent breath.

The creature in front of him was a werewolf. He knew this in his marrow. It was too big, too unusually proportioned, with its long limbs and neck, its fox-like snout. Its coat was too pure and deep a black for it to be a normal wolf.

Dreamily, as if he was moving through water, Seung drew the Colt from his holster. That morning he had removed his usual copper and lead bullets and replaced them with silver. Just in case.

Clearly, his instincts had been good.

He lifted the gun, cocked back the hammer—

“If you pull that trigger, it will be the last thing you ever do,” a familiar voice said calmly in his ear.

“Why are you harboring this thing?” Seung demanded, pistol still aimed at the werewolf’s heart.

“He’s not a thing. He’s a he. And why he’s here is no business of yours. Put down the gun, Seung, or I will kill you.”

“Will you, Jen? Will you really?”

“Yes.”

There was a blur of movement to his right. A hand whipped over his shoulder, the knife in it freezing just shy of his neck.

Not just a knife.

An iron knife.

Seung froze into inhuman stillness. The hateful metal that could destroy him at a fundamental level hovered so close to his skin he could already feel its cold burn. Regardless of what his mind wanted, his body was helpless and already growing numb from the dreadful substance’s proximity.

The Colt slid from his hand to clatter loudly against the floorboards. Jenny took tight hold of the back of his waistcoat with her free hand and pulled him inexorably down into a chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said, crouching down before him and meeting his shocked eyes without hesitation, the knife still in her hand. “But I wasn’t about to let you turn yourself into a murderer. The person on that bed has done _nothing_ wrong, to you or anybody else in this town. He came to me tonight for help, and I gave him my word that I’d keep him safe.”

“Yvonne,” Seung said weakly, the only explanation he could manage.

Jenny shook her head. “He has nothing to do with what happened to Yvonne. I swear it to the Green Goddess. He would never harm your sister. Or you. Or anyone. It’s truly not in his nature. He’s a Wulver, Seung.”

The sharpshooter blinked and looked at the were again, swallowing with difficulty. “…I thought they died out a century ago. I thought the English exterminated them along with the banshees.”

“Like the Chinese wiped out all the fae in Korea?” Jenny said pointedly, sheathing the iron knife and setting it on the table. “And the Russians burned all the Yagas, and the Greeks cut down the dryads, and the Norwegians shattered the frost giants? Just like the Americans hanged all their witches in Salem, hmm? You know better. Those of us with magic in our blood are difficult to stamp out completely. The stupid and cruel may cut us down, but we’re like dandelions: our roots go deeper than they can reach. We just spread out and grow elsewhere.”

Seung lifted a shaking hand to cover his face. “I was so sure,” he whispered. “It seemed obvious. The wolf first being sighted the night Yvonne almost…”

“None of us want to believe that whoever poisoned your sister lives among us. But I’m afraid we can’t pin the blame on a dangerous stranger. Or a convenient big bad wolf.” Jenny sighed. “I’m not saying the second wolf _isn’t_ dangerous—”

“There _is_ a second?”

“Yes. But as I was saying, I doubt they — if it turns out to be more than an animal — had anything to do with Yvonne, either. If they had, someone would have seen them two weeks ago instead of two days ago.” The hedgewitch grabbed a bottle of wine from a shelf and uncorked it easily with a magically-amplified flick of her thumb. “Goddess, I should’ve known better,” she muttered after taking a long swig. “What could go wrong in five minutes, Jennifer? There’s no need to worry. Huh, sure.” She took another pull and looked back down at Seung. “…Why _did_ you let yourself in?”

“I’ve a migraine,” he mumbled, face still buried in his hands. “I just needed an elixir.”

Setting the wine down with a solid thunk, Jenny blew out most of the candles within reach, instantly dimming the room, and strode to a cabinet for the appropriate jar. She scooped a healthy dollop of its viscous contents into a clay cup and added a ladle of water from the barrel by the hearth. “Drink it down,” she said in a softer tone.

Seung complied, wan and greatly subdued. “Thank you.”

While the elixir took effect, Jenny picked up the Colt, flicked it open, and dumped the silver bullets from the chambers into her palm. “Take these back to Godfrey’s in the morning,” she advised, pouring them into his waistcoat pocket. “I doubt you’ll need them any time soon.” She took his hand and slapped the now-empty pistol into it.

“I’m sorry, Jenny,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You thought you were protecting your sister. Avenging her. Love makes everyone do stupid things sometimes. At least you didn’t cross an uncrossable line.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I threatened you with cold iron.”

“I drove you to it.”

“You did,” she agreed readily, eyes fixed on his. “Don’t ever make me do it again.”

“I’ll do my best. …Is he going to be alright?” He tilted his chin toward the bed.

“He’ll be just fine so long as nobody with an itchy finger totes around silver shot. And as long as he never finds out this happened.”

“Understood,” Seung said, shame-faced as he stood and holstered his gun. “Thank you, Jenny. For stopping me, and for the cure-all.”

“Good night, Seung.”

The moment the door swung shut behind him, Jenny slid the bar down for good measure. “Reba, you don’t let so much as a mouse get in here the rest of the night,” she ordered, grabbing the wine bottle and collapsing into Seung’s vacated chair. “Goddess protect me from overwrought men…”


	65. Chapter 65

Ianto’s eyes opened to a sun-filled room and a tired but friendly face smiling down at him. “Good morning,” Jenny said, holding out a glass of cool sweet tea. “The sugar will perk you up and clear away the last of the cobwebs. Sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said, carefully sitting up. The towel was draped loosely over his middle, so it must have slid off during his shift. He tucked it snugly around his hips as he straightened, fighting back a blush.

In all honesty, he really _had_ slept well. He hadn’t felt this refreshed in a long, long time, and he was never so clear-headed the morning after a full moon. He sipped at the tea — discovered he was thirsty — and drained it eagerly.

“Another?” Jenny asked from the chair beside the bed.

“Please. Thank you.”

“I couldn’t help noticing,” the witch said conversationally as she took a pitcher from her icebox and refilled the glass. “Those scars on your back. Silver, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the name of whoever did that and I’ll hex him with lifelong boils in very disagreeable places.” She said it lightly, but there was a flintiness to her eyes when she handed him the refreshed glass.

Ianto said nothing and just drank his tea.

“…If you’re sure. Just remember it’s a standing offer. Do they ever itch and trouble you? The scars?”

“Sometimes.”

“Suspected as much. Here.” She grabbed a squat brown jar from the table and pressed it into his hand. “My mother’s famous Ease and Comfort Lotion. Prevents itching and guaranteed to shrink scars no matter how old they are. Rub this in with a firm hand every few days and you’ll feel significantly improved.”

“Thank you, Miss Jenny,” Ianto said softly. “What do I owe you for everything?”

“Five answers.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

She hadn’t broken his trust yet, and at this point she’d earned a lifetime supply of it. “Very well. What’s your first question?”

“Are your parents Wulvers, too?”

Ianto stared down at the hands folded in his lap. “Only my mother. Gwendolyn. She was a musician, a singer and fiddler. She passed when I was sixteen. Caught scarlet fever while nursing a neighbor’s little girl. The girl recovered. My mother didn’t.”

“And your father?”

“A human. A carpenter. A drunk. He left when I was thirteen.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No. There was a girl in England, when I was twenty. Sarah. Her parents disapproved of me because I was Catholic. But I knew from the beginning we couldn’t marry. Me being what I am. I’m not good husband material. I can’t stay in one place for long. Can’t put down roots or build a stable life.”

“Why not?”

“My nature. My…” His hands fisted so tightly his knuckles went white. “…My _goddamned_ _compulsions_. The moment I own anything, I have this overwhelming urge to give it away. I can’t hold onto money. Every gift handed to me has to be passed on to someone else. When I make something, it’s always for another person, it’s never something I can keep or sell for a profit. It’s a struggle to even accept food as payment.”

He hesitated. Stared at the vines spiderwebbing across the wall. “…It’s not that I wish I was greedy and selfish. Far from it. I could never gorge myself on a fine meal if I knew the man next door was starving. I just wish I could be _normal_. Wish I could keep a couple things for myself, save some money for a rainy day, have a home I could call my own with furniture and family photos…”

“I had no idea,” Jenny said softly. “I always thought Wulvers were just naturally kind. Inherently noble and heroic. The chivalric ideal.”

Ianto’s smile had a sharp and bitter edge. “Hardly. There’s nothing noble or knightly about being a Wulver. Pathetic, yes. But not noble. Not heroic.”

“No,” the witch said. “No, Ianto. I won’t sit here and listen to you cut yourself short. Struggling with self-destructive urges and unwanted compulsions doesn’t make you pathetic. That you fight this battle every day — that you have all of this weighing on your shoulders and you still get up and go to work and connect with other people — is, in and of itself, heroic.

“You saved Avonlea Reynolds’ and Liesel Gruben’s lives at the barn-raising. You helped Yvonne Bae by coming to fetch me, even though it meant exposing your secret. This town owes you a debt we can never repay, and we’re all better for your being here. You have value, Ianto. A great deal of value to a lot of us. Because you’re a good, _noble_ man right down to your bones. A man who deserves to have that home and family and stability.”

He bowed his head rather than meet her eyes. “…You only asked four questions.”

“I’ll save the fifth for another day. Now is not the time for the answer. I’ll step outside so you can dress.” Jenny scooped up Reba and rose from her chair.

Not even a minute passed before the door opened behind the witch and Ianto stepped out onto the front step beside her. “Thank you, Miss Jenny,” he said, extending the hand not holding the jar of lotion. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Ianto,” she said, shaking it firmly. “My door is always open for you.”

Jenny watched him set off down the path, cats scattering before him, and sighed. _Goddess, you better be keeping your eye on that one_ , she thought with genuine heat. _You better have a fitting reward for him waiting just over the horizon, or we’re going to have some_ words…


	66. PART FIFTEEN - BLOODSHED AND WILLOW BRANCHES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Javier Nuñez (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo) – a cowboy.  
> * Chen Tran (Wang Yibo) - a teenaged fenghuang.

**P A R T F I F T E E N — B L O O D S H E D A N D W I L L O W B R A N C H E S**

“Just when I think I’ve seen the prettiest dress ever made, you come downstairs in another stunner,” Josie said as Annamaria settled on her usual stool beside Celeste. The cook laid a plate of fluffy French toast on the bar in front of the divorcée and poured her a fragrant cup of Earl Gray. “You’ve got a wardrobe fit for a princess.”

“Aw, thank you, Josie.” Today’s dress was a mossy, forest green. Tightly braided golden thread had been stitched across the bodice and front of the skirt in the shape of a tree. Dozens of gnarled branches were dotted with sparkling clusters of white and green stones that emulated leaves. “The Cold Fish hated my sense of fashion. He only let me buy sedate, sensible gowns more suitable for stuffy matrons. The moment the divorce was final, I donated my entire wifely wardrobe and bought a new one. I know it’s showy and awfully impractical in the rugged West, but I like colors and embroidery. I like to sparkle.”

“I’m not at all surprised that Bobbie’s smitten with you,” Celeste said, smiling into her coffee cup. “That magpie loves to collect beautiful things.”

“Speaking of: I’ve been meaning to visit Bits ‘N Bobs and keep getting distracted. Friday afternoon, Blythe and I completely lost track of time while we were going over sketches for her catalogue. Saturday, my lunch with Hildy and Libby stretched into a dinner as well — then Yu Jie and I ended up discussing tea and California for nearly three hours! I haven’t been this social in months! Anyway, Bobbie’s shop is the first thing on the agenda for today.”

“Ooh, mind if I join you?” Josie asked. “I need to pick up my new hat.”

“Of course. We can make a morning of it.”

The cook grinned with girlish excitement and untied her apron, shoving it beneath the bar. “While you finish your breakfast, I’ll just have a word with Wint about keeping an eye on the huckleberry preserves I’ve got bubbling on the stove. Oh, and tell him to flip the racks of ribs I’ve got marinating for lunch…”

“She’s been dreaming of that hat for weeks,” Celeste said to her fellow boarder in an undertone as the kitchen door swung shut. “Those wax cherries have been calling her name.”

“Isn’t she the most adorable woman?” Annamaria whispered back. “She’s my mother’s age, yet she has more vim and vigor than I’ve ever known.”

“Oookay,” Josie trilled, reappearing with a small drawstring bag hanging from one elbow, the flour smudges scrubbed off her rosy cheeks. “Ready whenever you are, dear. Oh, no, don’t rush. Rushing leads to indigestion. Take your time. Do you need more honey? More powdered sugar? Here, let me top off your tea…”

***

“I’ve noticed something’s missing from Hazeldine,” Annamaria announced as she and Josie crossed Main.

“That so?”

“Mm-hmm. There’s no bakery.”

“No, there isn’t,” Josie said thoughtfully. “You know, I never really thought about it, but you’re right. I suppose everyone just makes their own bread, and comes to the Pax whenever they’re hankering for something sweet.”

“If there _was_ a bakery, do you think it would do well? That there’d be enough business to justify its existence? I mean,” Annamaria said quickly, “that it would help fill a gap, rather than steal customers away from the Pax.”

“Those are pretty leading questions, missy. One would think you’re fishing with a purpose… That was what’s called a ‘conversational opening’, by the way.”

“It’s just a thought. A vague, fuzzy idea. I’ve been wracking my brain, you see, trying to think of what I should _do_ with this new life I’m embarking on. I’m not exactly qualified to be a ranch hand or farmer. And it’s not that I technically _need_ a means of supporting myself — as you’ve probably already gathered, I’ve money enough to sit on my backside all day if I want to. But I don’t really want to do that. I did enough sitting the last ten years. Now I want to occupy myself with something worthwhile, something with a purpose. Something I could enjoy.”

“And you enjoy baking?”

“Very much. Ever since I was a little girl. The family cook, Mrs. Prouty, taught me everything from scones to petit fours. The day of my wedding, she gave me a box of recipe cards. It was the nicest gift I got that day; must’ve taken her hours to copy them all for me…”

“Well, before you commit yourself to a full business and buy store space, why don’t you test the waters first?”

“How do you mean?”

“Start small. Bake a few basic things each day and we’ll sell them at the Pax. Build up your customer base for you.”

Annamaria stopped short just shy of the door to Bobbie’s Bits ‘N Bobs. “Really? You’d do that?”

“Wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t going to,” Josie said smoothly. “It would lighten the load on my shoulders, to tell the truth. Cooking full lunches and dinners every day is hard enough without factoring in desserts and all the bread. And I’ve got three baking ovens at the Pax, so it’s not as if we haven’t the space and equipment for you.”

“Josie, you’re a real sweetheart.”

“I try, I try,” the older woman said, patting her arm and pulling open the shop’s door. “Yoo-hoo, Bobbie!” she called as they entered, passing a featureless woman-shaped mannequin wearing a lace collar and an ostentatious felt hat dripping with ribbons, the posed arms banded with woven leather bracelets and wristwatches.

A wooden rack of brightly patterned silk ties spun slowly to their right, operated by some sort of wind-up clockwork mechanism. Several lanterns hung from the rafters on thick chains, some paned with blue or green or purple glass, casting colored pools of light over displays of beautifully embroidered gloves, lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, gem-tipped hatpins, and gilded cigarette cases.

At every turn there were hat stands showcasing chapeaus of every style; they were made of straw, felt, stiffened silk, velvet, leather, tweed; studded with vibrant feathers, wax fruit so realistic they made the mouth water, a rainbow of silk flowers; trimmed with jewel-toned ribbons, fanciful embroidery, iridescent insect shells and wings.

Annamaria felt as if she’d wandered into Aladdin’s cave of treasures. The millinery and haberdashery on display here rivaled those of the greatest, most expensive shops in New York. Bobbie Lacy’s name should be on the tongue of every fashion-obsessed _haute monde_ heiress the world over.

She was staring avidly at a lace shawl dyed to resemble a cascade of peacock feathers, picturing how magnificent it would look with her navy blue day dress, when the sounds of approaching voices intruded. She turned to see a short, plump black boy and tall black man in a dark purple suit making their way through the shop from a doorway curtained with long glass beads. The man gestured with his hands as he talked, and his voice was strangely familiar…

“Thought I heard some hollering. Hello, Annamaria,” he said, smoothing a hand over the plum-colored tie tucked into his tailored, saffron yellow waistcoat. His short black hair was twisted into dozens of tiny knots. “Is today the day you’re finally taking the Cherries Jubilee home with you, Josie?”

“Sure is! Bring that beauty out — no need for a box, I’ll wear it home.”

“Back in two shakes.” The man disappeared through a doorway that lead to stairs, given the ascending echo of his footsteps.

“Hello, Roly!” Josie beamed, opening her arms wide. The boy dove into them for a hug. “I see Bobbie’s been giving you more beauty tips. You’re looking awfully handsome today.”

“You mean it?” said the boy earnestly when he stepped back, tugging down a white shirt that strained a little at his waistline and had been handed down at least once; the sleeves were too long and folded back at the fraying cuffs. He couldn’t be more than ten, Annamaria thought, with a round moon face, a charming gap between his front teeth, and a dimpled chin. His head was crowned by a perfectly round, fluffy cloud of black curls.

And he was wearing cosmetics: his eyelids and lashes had been painted a sparkling metallic gold. “Do you like the color on me, Miss Josie?”

“I _do_ ,” she said. “Makes you look quite royal.”

The boy flushed with pleasure. “Honest?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

“Oh, good, because I really like it, too. Much better than the usual kohl.”

“It suits you right down to the ground. Annamaria,” Josie said, arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Have you met Roland yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said, stepping away from the shawl rack. “Hello, Roland. I’m Annamaria Doherty.”

“Roland Reynolds,” the boy said, shaking her hand with adult gravity. His neatly-clipped nails were painted gold, too, she saw. “Pleasure meeting you, miss. I like your dress — beading like that must’ve taken weeks to do.”

“Roly’s going to be a fancy dressmaker when he grows up,” Josie said with pride. “He told me so just two nights ago.”

“Matt — that’s my biggest brother, miss — just became Miss Greer’s apprentice. When he told us, it got me to thinking about what I want to be when I’m grown. So I’m going to ask Mrs. Carlyle to teach me how to sew and embroider. Bobbie’s promised to teach me lace tatting and millinery.”

“That’s wonderful, Roland. And I quite like the gold on you, too.”

The boy grinned broadly. “Thanks, miss!”

“Here we are, darling,” the man in purple sang as he returned, a crimson hat held high. He set it on Josie’s head as if it was a crown, then deftly adjusted it at a jaunty angle, so the thick white bow and wax cherries sat just above her left ear. “Lord, woman, but this hat is just _divine_ on you. You look more queenly than Old Vicky.”

Josie’s snort was the antithesis of regal. “Come off it, Bobbie,” she said good-naturedly. “I’m as common as pond muck. Thank goodness.”

Annamaria stared intently at the man before her. She’d _thought_ his husky voice was familiar. And, yes, those hands were tipped with gold nails and wore at least a dozen rings. “Bobbie?” she said.

“Yes, sugar?” He blinked serenely at her.

“…You’re a man?”

“Sure am.”

“…I’m not sure I understand.”

“I just like to get gussied up sometimes,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand. “Women’s fashion is so much more beautiful than men’s. Y’all get the brightest colors, the prettiest patterns. All the nicest jewelry. And cosmetics! Don’t you just feel _powerful_ when your face is painted?” Roland Reynolds was nodding emphatically. “There’s something about the swish of a full skirt…” Bobbie went on dreamily. “And silk stockings just feel _heavenly_ , don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Annamaria agreed, though she was still confused. “You told me to call you ‘Auntie’…”

“When I get done up in my dresses,” Bobbie explained patiently. “I get in touch with my feminine, maternal side, too. It’s sort of like being an actor on a stage: the best actors use what’s already inside them to bring truth to their role. It gives me a chance to indulge certain parts of myself and be even more colorful than usual.”

“I think I see. It’s not that you want to be a woman — you just like to act like one?”

“Exactly. And regardless of how I’m dressed, I love being called ‘Auntie’. It just sounds so much nicer than _Uncle_.” Bobbie rolled his eyes in disgust. “Why are so many masculine things harsh and ugly? The language, the clothes, the manners, _ugh_. How brutish.”

“Is this sort of thing common?” Annamaria asked. The wider world was a lot more complicated and colorful than she had thought. Even her old penny dreadfuls seemed to be coming up short.

“Roly and I aren’t the only ones with such inclinations,” Bobbie said with authority. “It’s just a helluva lot safer for us to live openly here in Hazeldine. In other towns, this sort of thing has to be hidden as if it’s a shameful secret. Because something as simple as wearing a dress could get a man killed.”

“I never, _ever_ wanna go Outside,” Roland said with feeling. “It sounds _awful_.”

“It does sound awfully strange when you put it that way,” said Annamaria. “The idea that a piece of _clothing_ could be dangerous on a certain body. It’s just fabric and thread and buttons. What’s so inherently wrong about any of those things? Why should it matter so much to other people what shape the fabric takes and what’s beneath it?”

“If you could make the entire world realize how silly that is,” Josie said wisely, “there’d be a lot less hatred and cruelty.”


	67. Chapter 67

“No, Sheriff,” said Javier Nuñez, one of Herschel Gillenwater’s ranchers. Around them, cattle placidly cropped at the dry, faded grass. He cleared his throat carefully; out here on the range, he rarely needed to speak. “I’ve seen no sign of a wolf.”

Javier lifted his black hat and handkerchief to mop the sweat streaming down his face, the natural olive brown of his skin burnished to a deep gold by the sun. He was a tall, well-built man with a permanent five o’clock shadow and an equally permanent solemnity. Rosanna had the sense that he’d suffered a great loss before coming to Hazeldine, but she doubted she’d ever know if she was right: Javi was reserved and kept aloof from the rest of the town. When he wasn’t riding duty on the range, he spent his off days in a tiny hut on the edge of Mr. Gillenwater’s property, with only his livestock dogs for company.

The three canines were currently sitting obediently at his feet: the piebald mutt Roja and the two shepherds, Luna (with the blue coat) and Thunder (white and blue-eyed). All three were staring intently at her, as if suspicious she’d come to cause trouble for their master; they were well-trained and fiercely loyal animals. If a wolf had come this way, surely Javi’s dogs would’ve sounded the alarm.

“I’m starting to think the thing’s more spirit than animal,” Rosanna sighed. “Just keep an eye out. Boston’s coming to relieve you tonight, isn’t he? To help bring the herd back to the ranch?”

“Yes.”

“You might want to come into town when you’re done. Stay the next couple nights at the Pax. Luisa’s calling a storm tomorrow, and she’s pretty sure it’s going to be a wild one. Might be better if you’ve got a solid roof over your head — your little hut should have a rough go of it.”

“I’ll consider it, Sheriff.”

“Take care, Javi.”

Rosanna mounted her palomino, shook her head at James and Chen Tran astride their own horses, and the trio set off east. There was a river two miles past Grandfather that attracted plenty of wildlife — that would be their next stop. 

Saturday and Sunday had passed without a single sighting. Perhaps the wolf had sensed it was being hunted and had moved on. Rosanna wanted to believe that; she had no desire to kill an animal that had become so rare in this area, a creature her tribe had always venerated. She couldn’t let it threaten her town and its livestock, but she also understood that _they_ were the interlopers. The wolf was here long before any man or woman, and it had a right to live and hunt, too.

If it _wasn’t_ an animal, though, if it was one of the fae or a skinwalker or a were, as Seung feared, it would have seen the magical wards on the lightning oak. That it hadn’t simply walked into town and announced itself implied the wards had repelled rather than welcomed it. This wolf being could have ill-intentions or a bad heart.

Until they actually encountered the beast and tried to communicate with it, the uncertainty would nag at her like a deep-set, stubborn splinter.

“I could fly ahead and scout,” Chen suggested a mile from the river. At nineteen, the youngest Tran son had only last year gone through his final baby molt; he jumped at the slightest chance to show off his new orange pinion feathers now that he could sustain long flights.

“Alright. But be careful with your tail,” Rosanna cautioned. “The last thing we need today is a grass fire.”

“I promise I’ll stay high.” The boy eagerly scrambled from his saddle and unbelted his robe; he took after his mother, Lai, more than father Qu, with his long limbs and delicate features. Passing the reins to James, he sprinted a safe distance from them — for a fenghuang, he was coltish in his human form — and leapt into his shift. With a firm flap of his fire-hued wings, Chen shot up into the sky before his tail began to smolder and shower dangerous sparks over the sere ground.

_Kids,_ James signed to Rosanna with a fond grin that warmed her all over. _So full of energy_.


	68. Chapter 68

After everything Celeste had heard about the solstices, she’d expected more ghostly excitement today. Objects whizzing through the air. Translucent figures packing Main Street.

Thus far, the only specter she’d seen was Wint, who had become downright normal to her, for all that the man frequently walked through walls.

“I’m disappointed,” she told Jenny when the witch dropped by the store to deliver more of George’s headache powder. Godfrey’s always did a brisk trade the first half of the day, but it was busier than usual — they would be closing early for the traditional solstice celebration, and, thanks to Luisa’s storm, would be closed tomorrow, if not longer, depending how long the lightning lasted. Everyone in town was in a hurry to get all of their shopping done before the rain started. They were already running low on lantern oil and flour.

“The spooks don’t arrive in full force until after dark,” Jenny assured her, slipping a package of candle wicks into her basket. “Just wait.”

“Need any wax to go with those?”

“Nah, I’ve got plenty at home. I’m making a batch of perfumed candles tomorrow, if you want to reserve any.”

“What do they do?”

“Make rooms smell better,” Jenny said guilelessly, before cracking into a grin. “All sorts of things. Some calm anxiety, others help you concentrate, some help you sleep better…”

“I’ll take one of those.”

“The potion not cutting it?”

“Oh, it works fine when I take it,” Celeste said. “But the nights I don’t, the dreams are even _more_ vivid.”

“Hmmm,” Jenny hummed with a meaningful arch of an eyebrow.

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

“You were thinking very loudly.”

“And I’m gonna keep thinking it until you heed my advice.”

“What advice? Is something wrong?”

The two looked up at Ianto, walking by with a large sack of beans in his arms. “No,” they said in innocent unison, and he continued out the door to heft the bag into Mrs. Chandrabar’s cart.

“Strong, isn’t he?” Jenny said.

“Jen.”

“It was just an observation.”

“Uh-huh.” Celeste paused. “…Whatever you did for him certainly worked. It’s like he was never sick. His appetite’s back, his color’s good, he’s been humming while he works.”

“That’s good. What are your plans for tomorrow?” Jen diverted the conversation with all the subtlety of a freight train.

“Playing cards with Lotte, Josie, Wint, and Annamaria until we’re all bored to tears. Lot said a few folks will check in tonight rather than stay cooped up at home for the storm. What’re yours?”

“I’ll be brewing and decanting and chanting all day. With Luisa’s magic saturating the air, there’ll be plenty of spill-off to channel into my own crafting. I suspect Greer will be busy in her forge, and Nellie will be churning out charms, and Odessa will be casking beer and ale, too. Witches hate to let good power go to waste.”

“There’s going to be that much flying around?”

“Folks like to say I’m the head witch of Hazeldine, but I can’t hold a candle to Luisa. She’s the most powerful witch I’ve ever met,” Jenny said frankly. “Storm witches are short-lived, as a rule. Their brand of magic is just too volatile, too wild, for humans to channel properly. Most die of heart attacks or lightning strikes by their thirties. Luisa is fifty-three. That’s almost unheard of.”

“Jesus. Why the hell would anyone mess with storm magic at all?”

“Some witches don’t have a choice in the magic they practice. Some of us are just born with certain abilities. And when you have innate magic, it demands to be used. Not using it can be just as dangerous. Luisa can go months, even years, without fully unleashing her power like this, but she still has to funnel it somewhere. That’s why she’s always making lightning jars and wind flags. And…

“Historically, weather witches have been treated like goddesses. So often, their power can mean the difference between life and death for entire communities. If your town was dying of starvation due to a drought or harsh storms, if you saw little kids with swollen bellies and old men wasting away, wouldn’t you want to do something to fix it? No matter what the personal risk was?”

“Yes, but… Lord. When Rosanna told me she was hesitant about asking Luisa to do this, it sounded like she was just worried that the storm would be too destructive for the town. She mentioned ‘the balance’ between all of the magical forces in Hazeldine. She didn’t say anything about the dangers to Luisa.”

“Rosanna’s a very pragmatic person. She always looks at the big picture, especially when Hazeldine is concerned. It’s how Hawley raised her; how their tribe has always been. They’ve been the guardians of Grandfather for generations and they take their jobs as protectors very, very seriously. No personal sacrifice is too great when the greater good is at stake.”

Celeste chewed at her bottom lip. Her initial thought was _how mercenary_ , but then another voice whispered, _how is that any different from you?_ For seven years, she’d dedicated her life to eradicating men who harmed others. She lived not for herself, but for her mission. Her own happiness and desires were ignored in order to seek justice for other women and children.

How many times had she purposefully offered herself up as bait? How many slaps had she stoically endured? How many lecherous hands had she let grope her, how many distasteful kisses had she allowed?

All for the greater good.

“…and Luisa’s a grown woman, after all,” Jenny was saying when she resurfaced from her thoughts. “No one forces her to do anything. If she wasn’t feeling up to a calling, if the timing is off, if she has any doubts whatsoever, she would say so. There’s a reason she’s lived this long.”

The door swung open and Liesel Gruben entered with several of her students. “Best behavior,” she said in her firmest schoolmarm voice.

“Yes, Miss Gruben,” the children obediently chanted. Avonlea promptly wove her way through the store to hug Ianto, just climbing down from the ladder with a box of Borax for Jessika Dupree.

“Good morning, Liesel,” Celeste said. “I thought school was out of session until Wednesday?”

“It is. I’m just keeping an eye on some of the children whose parents are occupied today,” she said, nodding with frosty politeness at Jenny. Reba the cat, sprawled across the witch’s feet, promptly stood and sauntered over to the taller woman to paw at the hem of her skirt with a plaintive meow. “I promised them each three pieces of candy if they finished a page of math problems, so we’re here to make good on — Prudence, eyes but no hands,” she said, and a carrot-haired girl with a freckle-covered face yanked her hand back from the jar of licorice. “Only touch the candy you intend to eat. Remember what I said about germs?”

Celeste slipped behind the counter and pulled out the small paper bags and candy tongs. “Alright, who’s first?” she asked brightly.

Liesel and the parents of Hazeldine were doing a fine job of instilling good manners in the next generation: most of the children lined up politely without any prompting. The first eager face belonged to Avonlea’s youngest brother, six-year-old Lincoln. “Miss Celeste, can I have three of those?” he asked in a piping voice, pointing at a basket of cinnamon-dusted lollipops.

“Are you sure, Link? Those are pretty hot. I thought you didn’t like spicy things?”

“They’re for Bedford and Jake and Roly,” the boy said earnestly. “They’re their favorites.”

Looking at the little boy in hand-me-down clothes, Celeste felt her heart twist. Given the opportunity to have three sweets for himself, the youngest of the Reynolds picked out candies for his absent brothers instead.

She smiled and dropped three of the cinnamon lollies into a bag, then added a long string of red licorice for Robert, a molasses stick for Matthew, and a scoopful of candy buttons she knew Lincoln loved. “For being so sweet,” she said as she handed the bulging bag to him. She’d cover the difference with her own earnings.

“Thanks, miss!” he grinned, eyes wide, and hurried over to his sister. “Look, Lee! That’s for Matt, and that’s for Roly…”

“That was lovely of you,” said Leah Ginsberg after the other children had been served. She was in her wicker wheelchair today, and rolled close to the counter so Celeste could reach the items she’d put in the wire basket attached to the front. The jars of ceramic glaze she’d ordered had finally arrived, too, and Celeste pulled the box from a shelf under the counter.

“Got enough room to take these, too, or shall I deliver them tonight before the party?”

“I’ll manage, thanks.”

Celeste punched the prices into the register. “Link is such a thoughtful little boy. I couldn’t let him leave without anything for himself.”

“Of all the Reynolds, he’s the most like their mother. Roberta was just as sweet and considerate. She was everybody’s big sister.”

“I’ve never been all that maternal,” Celeste confessed quietly, “but those kids…”

“I know exactly what you mean. Really tugs on your heartstrings. Poor Yancy. He tries hard, but it’s been difficult for him. And you can tell that the children see that — they work just as hard to be self-reliant and look after each other. Matthew’s leapt head-first into his apprenticeship with Greer, and Robert spends hours working their field. Jacob’s busy every morning before school delivering the _Hawk._ And they’re never sullen, always so polite and friendly. They’re a good bunch.”

“…at the Pax, too, Mr. Ianto?” Avonlea asked as she, Ianto, and Lincoln approached the counter. Noticing Leah rolling toward the door, the girl darted forward to hold it open for her. “Bye, Miss Leah!” she grinned.

“Thank you, Avonlea. Have a nice day.”

“I will!” She hurried back and took three rainbow pinwheel lollipops from a jar. “I’d like these for my treat, Miss Celeste. Are you, Mr. Ianto?”

“No, I’ll be staying here. Avonlea was wondering if I would be at the Pax for the storm,” he added, catching the unspoken question on Celeste’s face. “Josie offered to keep an eye on the Reynolds tomorrow.”

“Except Matt,” Avonlea clarified. “He’s gonna be at the forge. Miss Greer’s gonna make a bunch of lucky horseshoes tomorrow.”

“Miss Celeste will be there, though,” said Ianto. “I bet she’ll play some games with you.”

“Absolutely! I know I’m a poor consolation prize next to Mr. Ianto, but I’d love to play a few games.”

Jenny, watching the exchange over a rack of shirts, was the only one to see the gentle look Ianto cast at Celeste.


	69. Chapter 69

The dusty, rock-studded bank of the river was stamped with dozens of tracks — Rosanna picked out deer, hare, raccoon, badger, horse, cattle, coyote, and human boots as they led the horses to the edge to drink — but there were no pawprints large enough to belong to the wolf Nova and Rachel had sighted.

While the mares drank their fill, she moved upstream a few feet to refill her canteen. The river was lower than usual thanks to the drought, but it still churned and splashed at a powerful speed. The center remained several feet deep, frothing with an undertow strong enough to drown a careless man.

Pulling off his boots and tucking them into the straps of his saddlebag, James strolled slowly down the bank in the opposite direction, sharp eyes scanning the ground around his bare feet. He followed tracks as easily as anyone in her tribe; for a white man, his connection with the natural world was incredible. He may be deaf, but some part of him heard the earth itself, like an echo in the bones. It was what made him such a successful farmer, and it was his most attractive quality, in Rosanna’s eyes.

All her life, Rosanna had desired other women, and had married the only one she’d ever truly loved. She’d never questioned that attraction; her people recognized all of the various expressions of love and self, and she had seen several women marry and live together.

But over the years, her friendship with James Campbell had deepened and, two months ago, she finally understood the truth: what she felt for him was no longer just friendship.

That very night, she’d sat down with Lotte to discuss her newfound awareness — keeping secrets from her wife was anathema. Rosanna was a woman with honesty built into her very being.

She had been prepared to sever her connection with James for Lotte’s sake; to explain to him they could no longer ride together or see one another outside of town events or official business. That would be painful, yes, but far better she sacrifice that friendship than the life she had built with Lotte.

It took a lot to surprise Rosanna Tupelo, but that night Lotte Barton managed to shock her. With relief, not pain, shining in her eyes, Lotte confessed that she, too, felt more than a platonic fondness for James Campbell. She had tried to ignore the way she was drawn to him because she had been so sure Rosanna could never feel more than friendship for a man and because she, too, valued their relationship too much to damage it.

And, Lotte admitted quietly, though they had been discussing the possibility of adopting a son or daughter from Outside, a part of her had begun to long for a baby of her own — for the experience of carrying her own child. She’d said nothing out of fear of hurting her; it was, after all, the one thing Rosanna couldn’t give her…

With everything laid bare, Rosanna thought the solution was simple and obvious; plural households were rare in Hazeldine, but no more taboo than same-sex marriages or the Tickled Pink.

But Lotte had cautioned her against approaching James with her usual blunt honesty; this situation called for delicate finesse and patience. The longtime widower had always lived a quiet, predictable life with set routines, and he was as bound to his farm as Rosanna was to her duty as sheriff and Lotte was to the Pax. Their proposition would certainly imbalance him and change _all_ of their lives.

Rosanna conceded there was wisdom in biding for the right time. But for once, she was growing impatient. It felt as though she was lying to James by omission and that stuck painfully in her craw. Wondering just _when_ would be the right time, she sat in the shadow cast by a riverside willow and took a long pull of her canteen, savoring the cool and earthy tang of the river water.

Shielding her eyes with one hand, Rosanna glanced up at the cloudless sky in search of Chen. There was no sight of the fenghuang. She wondered just how far down- or up-river he’d soared. Hopefully he wouldn’t go too far and push himself past his limits; he was young and cocky and eager to impress, a combination that often led to foolhardy mistakes. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed so readily to—

The wind shifted and every hair along her neck and arms leapt to attention as an unusual scent filled her nostrils. The smell of musk and pine, in a spot where no evergreens grew.

Rosanna turned her head and stared into large amber eyes framed by black fur.

The wolf crouched not ten feet away. Its triangular head and brushy tail drooped low as it studied her, its legs longer and thinner than any wolf she’d ever seen before. The paws were elongated, too, more like claw-tipped hands and feet than a dog’s paws.

_Seung was right. It’s not an animal. It’s a were,_ Rosanna thought, strangely calm. Its panted breath sent small puffs of dust up from the ground, but it had yet to make a sound.

“If you mean no harm, you’re welcome here,” she said. “We’re a friendly bunch in Hazeldine.”

The ears swiveled. Dark pupils sharpened.

“But if you intend to cause trouble, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Rosanna continued, slowly reaching up to the star affixed to her shirt.

The light glinted off the golden metal.

The wolf stiffened. Black lips drew back from sharp white teeth and a deep, rumbling growl filled the air. Its haunches rose as it prepared to spring.

Eyes fixed on the beast lunging toward her, Rosanna’s hand sped down to the revolver at her hip, even though she knew her iron bullets would do nothing.

As claws scythed down at the sheriff’s face, a slender branch whipped out past her ear and caught the wolf broadside, smacking the creature out of the air and to the ground with a sharp crack. Before the wolf could do more than yelp in pain, another branch swung out to smash it across the muzzle. A third wrapped around a back leg to drag it bodily down the river bank.

Rosanna sat still as a statue while the willow behind her thrashed and swayed violently over her head, long, leafy branches turned into punishing tentacles. Her wide eyes focused on a figure kneeling just beyond the chaos of greenery and black fur.

James.

His back was bowed, his hands clutching at the dry earth, his blue eyes glazed. Rosanna could sense the power he was pouring into the ground; it was the same power that sent roots through solid rock and drove clouds of pollen into the air every spring. With it, he was controlling the tree.

James Campbell was a greenwitch.

And he was so focused on keeping the wolf away from her, he wasn’t paying attention to how every strike from the willow was sending the were closer to him.

Badge in hand, Rosanna dove and rolled through the whipping branches. If she could just reach the wolf and press her star to its skin, she would reverse its shift. A were was still stronger than an average man in their human form, but that would remove claws and fangs from the deadly equation.

But as she tripped over snaking roots and narrowly avoided smashing her forehead into a branch, Rosanna could only cry out a useless warning as the were spun to face a defenseless James.

As it slashed out a foreleg with a snarl, claws slicing into the farmer’s shoulder and arm.

As James fell back with a strangled gasp of pain, hand clasping a green shirt suddenly red with blossoming blood, the willow abruptly freezing into its usual inanimate stillness.

As the wolf stood over him, saliva dripping from its lips, inches away from tearing out his throat—

A ferocious screech rent the air, the sound of a hunting raptor stooping on its prey. There was a brilliant explosion of red and gold, the heady scent of frankincense, as Chen Tran sank his black talons into the wolf’s shoulders and tore him away from James.

With three great beats of his wings, the fenghuang rose into the air, still gripping the now shrieking, thrashing wolf. The rank odor of burning fur, then burning flesh, became overpowering as Chen’s flaming tail scorched the were’s back. The two hovered over the river, the fenghuang struggling to gain altitude with such a burden, the were desperately fighting to escape, and then—

Chen lost his grip. The yelping, yowling werewolf fell into the center of the river with a cataclysmic splash, sinking instantly beneath the foam, carried swiftly away by the powerful rapids.

Rosanna whistled shrilly for her horse; all three of the animals had startled away at the offset of the clamor, but her palomino trotted back with obedient alacrity. Ripping the blanket and saddlebags from the mare’s back, she rushed to James’ side and took stock of his injuries.

The wounds were deep and bled freely, but the claws had missed any organs or arteries. James was already slipping into unconsciousness from the shock and blood loss, and she was quick to bundle him tightly in the thick blanket.

Chen landed nearby and shifted enough to speak: “What can I do?”

Rosanna glanced at the man-sized figure with a human face, peacock-like red feathers, and golden scaled legs. “Can you cry yet?”

“No. We can’t until we’ve built our first pyre.”

“Then you need to fly back to town. Tell Doc to get his surgery ready, and tell Jenny to bring him some restorative potions.” As she spoke, she pulled off her shirt and folded it into a thick pad. Wrapped it around James’ shoulder, yanked off her belt, and fastened it into a makeshift pressure bandage. “I’ll get him back as quickly as I can. Go.”

The fenghuang threw himself back into the air and soared away.

There was no question about maneuvering James onto the saddle in front of her. With a hurried apology and word of gratitude to the willow tree, Rosanna took out her knife, selected branches that were already badly battered and bent, and hacked quickly through them. With the rope she always carried, she lashed them into a crude sledge and manhandled the limp James onto it. Fastening the lines to her saddle girth, Rosanna swung onto her horse and set off — slowly at first, to test the stability of the sledge, then at a steady clip.

She focused on the smudge on the horizon that was Hazeldine. _It’s only a flesh wound_ , she told herself. _He’s a strong man. He’s going to make it._


	70. PART SIXTEEN - SOLSTICE SPIRITS

**P A R T S I X T E E N — S O L S T I C E S P I R I T S**

“Celeste, put down the pencil and eat before it all goes cold.”

“Just a moment,” she murmured, comparing her scribbled list to the order form.

Ianto glanced up from his curry — Mrs. Chandrabar had paid her month’s tab with three jars of imported spices and a new recipe — and hid a smile. George was as exasperated as a parent faced with a child unwilling to put down their toy, while Celeste looked like a student absorbed with a confusing equation.

Watching them from his side of the table, Ianto felt a rush of warmth in his chest. A fierce fondness for the equally stubborn, outspoken pair; constantly at loggerheads with one another, and yet they treated him with such kind respect.

Before he could begin to analyze the feeling — and before George could say whatever sharp words he’d opened his mouth to say — a burst of alarmed noise in the street below interrupted. Celeste’s pencil flew from her startled hand and rolled under the tall china hutch. Ianto sprang to his feet, followed by George, the former rushing to the staircase, the latter to the window at the end of the hall looking down on Main.

Plucking a long-handled wooden spoon from a drawer, Celeste knelt quickly and used it to sweep under the hutch, fishing out the pencil, a large dust bunny, and a porcelain thimble. “What is it?” she called to George.

“Can’t tell. But Chen Tran landed in his fenghuang form, and now there’s a crowd of people gathering down the street. Down by Doc’s, maybe.”

Dropping the spoon into the sink, the clump of dust into the wastebasket, and the pencil onto the table, she gave the thimble a short glance before slipping it into her pocket and hurrying after Ianto.

***

“Some excitement brewin’, Miss Celeste,” wheezed Eustace from his chair, craning his turkey-like neck to peer down the street. It occurred to Celeste that she’d never actually seen any of the Captains arrive or leave; they were always sitting in front of the store before she arrived every morning, and they disappeared just prior to close. “Better go listen in, an’ come back to tell us the going’s ons.”

As Celeste hurried along the promenade, a man on horseback — Pete Steele, judging by the chaps and flash of blond hair — galloped past, heading in the direction of Jenny’s cottage and the Tran farm. Frowning, she quickened her pace.

Ianto stood uneasily at the edge of the growing, buzzing crowd in front of the red and white barbershop pole. He glanced at Celeste as she reached him, face grim.

“The wolf,” he said. “He attacked Mr. Campbell.”

“Oh God,” she gasped, feeling as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head. “Is he—?”

“Chen Tran isn’t sure. His shoulder was clawed badly. The sheriff put a tourniquet on it and sent Chen ahead to prepare Dr. Pendergast. They were past Grandfather when it happened.”

Irrepressible tears stung Celeste’s eyes. She pictured James in his usual seat at the Tickled Pink during their sewing circle, that sparkling smile on his handsome face, callused hands stitching together a new calico dress for Rachel. Such a kind, thoughtful, gentle man. So patient with his neighbors and so proud of his wild daughter.

“Rachel,” said Celeste through the shock. “Does she know?”

“I don’t know,” Ianto replied. “She’s not here.”

“And the wolf?”

“Chen dropped him into the river, after wounding him badly. He was swept away by the current.” Ianto hesitated. “He may have drowned.”

“‘May have’ is cold comfort.”

“I see them!” Eduardo Ruiz’s voice rose suddenly over the anxious murmuring. The notary public stood with a hand at his furrowed brow, shielding his famously sharp eyes from the midday sun. “They’re coming!”

Heart in her throat, stomach churning as if it was full of agitated snakes, Celeste unconsciously gripped Ianto’s hand as they all silently watched Sheriff Tupelo’s horse approach, dragging a makeshift sledge behind it that kicked up a billowing cloud of dust. Celeste wondered how many wanted to rush out and meet them as she did, even though doing so would be pointless — James had to reach the Doc and his clean surgery to receive any real help.

Rosanna’s pretty palomino was streaked with foam, black lips dripping with ropes of saliva, when it finally cantered to a trembling stop yards away. _Then_ everyone broke free of their paralysis in a mad rush, some lunging forward to carry the wounded man inside, others to tend to the exhausted animal and help the ashen-faced sheriff down from her saddle.

In the jostling bustle, Celeste found herself separated from Ianto and beside Lotte, who looked as sickened as she felt, her usually rosy complexion a ghastly grey.

“How is he?” the Pax’s proprietress cried out as the swaddled James disappeared through the doorway between two lines of people. It was a disquieting sight, like a coffin being carried between pallbearers... “ _How is he?_ ”

“He’s breathing!” someone shouted. “He’s alive!”

Lotte’s eyes snapped shut. She swayed violently, prompting Celeste to put an arm around her waist. “Breathe, Lot!” she ordered. “Take a deep breath!”

“Listen to Miss Preston, darlin’,” added Rosanna, stepping through the crowd to embrace her overwhelmed wife. Her hands were smeared with dried blood and her shirt had disappeared, a sleeveless white undershirt the only thing preserving her modesty. “He’s gonna pull through. He _is_ …”

The breeze shifted. The wheezing palomino lapping at the bucket of water held out by Eduardo abruptly shied, pulling its bridle free from helpful hands and whickering shrilly as it pranced backwards, too tired to rear or bolt but clearly frightened.

“What’s wrong, girl?” asked Bram, stroking gently down her quivering withers. “Catch wind of something you don’t like?”

“Poor thing. After what she’s been through, do you blame her for shying at shadows?”

“It’s alright now, sweetheart. Have another drink and catch your breath…”

Ianto drew further back, painfully aware of how the spooked horse’s white-eyed gaze had fixed on him. She recognized what he was — she’d caught a similar scent already today, a scent she now associated with blood and fear.

It was the scent still clinging to Chen Tran when he landed in the middle of Main Street. Enough like Ianto’s that there was no doubt left: the wolf stalking Hazeldine was a were.

And this attack did not bode well for his future intentions. That he was still alive Ianto took for granted; it took more than fenghuang talons and river rapids to kill a healthy were in their prime. The black wolf was sure to reappear.

The only question was _when_.


	71. Chapter 71

“Oh, that’s not bad at all,” Doc said with audible relief. Having peeled back the blood-soaked fabric, he examined the five lacerations with a clinical eye. The farmer’s left shoulder had bore the brunt of the attack, with four clawmarks beginning just above the clavicle, about two inches from his neck, and slanting down the chest at an angle into the armpit. A fifth, shallower cut marked his upper arm, across the bicep. “Another bottle of alcohol, son. The wounds will need to be irrigated well before we begin stitching. We can’t leave even a speck of debris behind, or it could fester.”

Nova, wan and anxious, nodded and hurried to fetch more rubbing alcohol.

“He’ll make it, Doc?” asked Chen, figuratively hovering in the corner. The bare-chested, bare-footed young man wore a pair of Nova’s trousers, belted tightly to keep them on his slimmer hips. “You’re sure? Because I can go fetch my father — Mother can’t cry right now, she’s still broody with Hua, but Father could do it.”

“No, no, it’s not that dire,” Hermann assured. “The bleeding has stopped.”

True, fenghuang tears could heal external wounds completely in a matter of seconds — but such a miraculous cure-all came with a price. The act could trigger immolation, and with a new hatchling to care for, the Tran family needed its patriarch right now. Lai Tran couldn’t care for both her child and a newly reincarnated husband at the same time, even with help from the community.

“Besides,” Doc added as he began gently sponging around the wounds, “Mr. Steele’s gone for Miss East and her wonderful elixirs—”

The door swung open behind them, and Doc turned with a ready smile. “Speak of the — Odessa!”

“Expecting pretty blonde, eh?” boomed the large, broad-shouldered brewer. The Russian’s short, reddish curls were tucked beneath a floral babushka and she balanced a squat brown jug on her blue-skirted hip. “You always forget me, Hermann, when you need witch. I hear boy lost lot of blood. No good. He needs strong brew. Restore his strength.”

“Er, beer may not be—”

“Not beer! Stout!” Odessa insisted, shoving aside a chair in her way and plowing forward. “Bread you drink. Listen to me, man. I put Yaga herbs in. Special blend. Get him on feet in no time.” She loomed over the examination table and sucked her teeth loudly, expression softening. “Poor boy. I help Melissa East bring him into world, you know? Just got here, hardly unpacked, and Melissa call me for help. Mama was feverish even before labor. So he came out with closed ears. Still, he has done well. Grew up into good, strong man. Good father.”

_Nova_ , Doc signed at his son. _I will flush out the wounds. Stay close. He may wake, and you will need to help hold him steady and reassure him._

The boy nodded grimly.

With a pair of surgical tongs, Hermann held one of the lacerations open as he poured the sterilizing alcohol over the wound. Immediately, as if a switch had been flipped, James bucked against the table, eyes and mouth flying open with a sharp wheeze of pain.

Nova gripped his arm and Odessa leaned forward, her ruddy face eclipsing the lantern hanging over the table. “No pain,” she boomed as if a pronouncement from God, reaching down to press her sausage-like thumb against the center of his forehead.

As suddenly as he’d regained consciousness, James was senseless again, limp and relaxed against the table.

“A nice trick,” Hermann said, impressed.

“Only work with magic Yaga thumb,” Odessa grinned. “Now, you clean and stitch him up good. Then I wake him for stout. You see — he will be home in two days.”

The door swung open again. “How is—”

“He’s out of danger,” Chen said cheerfully. “Doc and Miss Pavelich are fixing him up.”

“Oh.” Jenny hesitated, momentarily flummoxed. “…Then you don’t need me?”

“Not today, Miss East, so it would seem,” replied Doc, taking the needle Nova had threaded. “Apologies for the alarm.”

“No, no apologies necessary,” she said, basket dangling by her side. “I’d rather _not_ be needed, you know?”

“We should go tell everyone he’ll be alright,” Chen suggested. “Especially the sheriff — she was awfully worried.”


	72. Chapter 72

“Free drinks, on the house!” shouted Josie as those holding vigil at the Pax cheered Chen’s announcement. “A toast — to James’ speedy recovery!”

Rachel, standing between Nellie and Lotte, a hand clasped tightly by each, slumped with lightheaded relief. When Nellie pulled away to fetch them all brandies, the girl turned to hug Lotte, the tears on her freckled cheeks dampening the shoulder of her blouse.

“We have to tell him,” Rosanna said to her wife over the girl’s head. “As soon as he regains his strength. No more waiting.”

“Yes,” Lotte whispered, stroking Rachel’s unkempt curls. “We will.”

Rosanna looked up, scanned the room, and caught Jenny’s eye. “Be right back, darlin’.”

“That’s a serious expression given the good news,” the witch said as the sheriff sat beside her.

“How much do you know about werewolves?”

If Jenny ever played poker, even Seung would be hard pressed to read her. “A little. What do you want to know?”

“Are the legends true? That anyone bitten or scratched becomes one?”

“No, absolutely not. Weres are born or cursed, like any other shifter. They’re not disease carriers. I gather this means the wolf—”

Rosanna nodded grimly. “Could it have survived? A fifteen foot drop into turbulent water? With talon punctures and a back scorched by fenghuang feathers?”

“Possibly. They’re the hardiest of shifters. Incredibly resilient. What _exactly_ happened today? Did the were attack without any provocation?”

“I spoke to it. Said it was welcomed so long as it meant no harm. Then I showed it my badge, and it leapt at me. Probably would have flayed open my face if James hadn’t intervened. It turned its attention on him. Clawed his shoulder. Would have torn out his throat if Chen hadn’t arrived when he did.”

“Sheriff,” Jenny said slowly. “…Don’t let this color your perception of all weres. They’re not any more inherently evil than any other race. Just because this one was violent doesn’t mean they _all_ are.”

Rosanna stared at her for a long beat with a champion poker face of her own. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss East.”

A few feet away, Mayor Tupelo was busy assuring those gathered around his table. “The solstice celebration will go on as planned. If anything, it seems we have even _more_ cause for celebration now! James Campbell and Chen Tran have both acted heroically today, and their actions have removed a threatening pall over us all. Miss Perdillo will be spending all of her time crafting medals if this spate of bravery continues!”

“You should go back and tell George and the Captains the news,” Celeste suggested to Ianto. She’d found him tucked away in the corner, more stoic-faced than usual. “I’ll be along just as soon as I’ve checked on Lotte and Rachel.”

With a silent nod, Ianto rose and slipped away, past a grinning Chen Tran who blushed deeper and deeper as more of his neighbors approached him at the bar to shake his hand, clap his shoulder, and congratulate him on his bravery.

If he were more like his brother Po, he’d be overwhelmed and panicked by all of the noise and physical contact; as it was, he was positively giddy. He’d spent most of his life on the farm, with just his family and the chickens for company; it had only been in the past year, since his final molt, that his parents let him venture into town on his own. And he’d _never_ been the center of so much attention before.

A glass of whisky was pushed into his hand and he threw it back eagerly, only to reveal his inexperience by spluttering and coughing at the sharp burn.

“Careful,” said a teasing voice at his shoulder. “You’re supposed to drink it, not inhale it.”

He turned to find Libby Hawk — the most beautiful woman in town, like a sunflower come to life in a bright yellow, low-cut gown — smiling at him. Was it her or the whisky that was making him so flushed?

Chen suddenly felt self-conscious about his barely-dressed state, his hairless chest and skinny arms. He pushed a hand through his shaggy black hair and hoped it didn’t look too much like a haystack.

“How does it feel to be a hero?” she asked, handing him another glass and sipping from her own.

“Good,” he said honestly, following her lead and sipping the whisky this time. It still burned and tingled against his tongue, but it was a pleasurable sort of pain. He could see why so many enjoyed drinking. “Really, really good.”

“You _should_ feel good. What you did was very brave. Very courageous. Saving James’ life. Killing the wolf. Protecting the whole town. You’re the man of the hour.”

_The man_ , he thought with pride. _That’s right._ _That’s exactly what I am_. Mother could call him “little chick” all she wanted — the rest of town knew the truth. He was a man now. Indisputably.

“I’m heading back to the Pink,” Libby said, setting aside her empty glass. “Would you like to join me?”

“Join you?” he echoed, confused. He felt he was missing something. Did liquor usually take effect and addle your wits this quickly?

Libby looked at him for a moment, struggling to repress a smile. “Chen, I’m offering you my services for the next hour. Free of charge. My way of showing my appreciation for your courage today.”

“Oh — Oh!” His face paled, then burned red. His skin abruptly felt two sizes too small, the way it did just before he shifted. “I — well — that — I mean, I…”

“No pressure,” she assured him. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I won’t be offended.”

“I just…” He bowed his head, embarrassed, and looked at his feet. “I’ve never done that… before…”

“I thought as much. That’s partly why I’m offering. It’ll help you get past the initial awkwardness so you’re more confident the next time. Then, when you find a nice girl you really like, you’ll know what to do. Think of it as a free lesson, and me as a tutor.”

Chen chewed his bottom lip. Glanced up at her through the thick fans of his eyelashes. He’d be lying if he said Libby Hawk hadn’t starred in some of his late night fantasies. “…Alright,” he said, breathless, heart thudding wildly against his ribs at his daring.

He’d fought a _wolf_ today. If he could do that, he could do this. No reason to be frightened of bedding a beautiful woman, right?

***

He was _terrified_.

Somehow, he’d managed to blindly follow Libby down the street, through the front door, up the staircase, and into a bedroom — he’d never been inside the Tickled Pink before, had always wanted to know if it was as outrageous inside as it was out, and he _still_ didn’t know what the place looked like.

But now he stood frozen just beyond the doorway, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Libby turned to look at him. The flirtatious expression on her face instantly softened. “…We’re not going to have sex right now.”

“We-we’re not?” he stammered.

“No. Because you’re obviously uncomfortable and on the verge of sprinting out of here. I don’t take anyone to bed unless they enthusiastically want me to.” She sat on the end of the bed and gestured at a plush wingback chair not far from where he had frozen. “Sit down and catch your breath. When you feel better, we can talk. Or you can leave. Whichever you prefer.”

Wobbling slightly on knees that wanted to lock up, Chen sank into the chair. Clutching at the arms, he took a deep breath. Then another, and another.

“Focus on physical details in the room,” Libby suggested in a soft voice. “That’ll help settle you.”

He stared at the red damask pattern on the wallpaper. Traced his thumbs along the slightly rough golden thread that criss-crossed the arms of the chair in an interlocking diamond design. Flexed his toes over the thick rug that covered most of the wooden floor.

“Better?”

Chen nodded and took another slow breath. “…Better.”

“Panic is probably my least favorite emotion,” said Libby sympathetically. “I think I hate it even more than pain.”

“Really? Why?”

She looked up at the ceiling, lips quirking to the left. “Because panic makes you lose control. Makes you feel weak and vulnerable. Pain can actually help you focus sometimes. Pain wakes you up. Panic just leaves you dithering.”

“I can’t imagine you ever panicking,” he said. “You’re always so… confident.”

“You’ve never met my mother,” she said dryly. “She all but dragged me to a church altar. That’s what made me come out here.”

“You didn’t like the person she wanted you to marry?”

“No, I liked him a lot. But I didn’t love him. I knew I could _never_ love him. And he didn’t deserve a loveless marriage.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Lesson Number One,” announced Libby, raising a finger. “People don’t always want the things society assumes they should. In my case, I don’t want a husband. Or a wife. Because I don’t feel a need for companionship beyond the casual. I enjoy physical expressions of love, but I can’t feel the emotion. At least not in the romantic sense. …Is this making sense?”

“I think so?” Chen thought of Po, who hated to be touched even by Mother, who hid from loud noises and people, who was content to sit in corners and weave basket after basket all day, humming softly while he rocked back and forth. He could never see Po marrying or having children; he didn’t have those desires.

“And some people don’t want to have sex, and that’s perfectly fine, too—”

“It’s not—” he stopped short, self-conscious. But Libby just smiled at him, placid and patient. “…It’s not that I _don’t_ want to have sex. I mean, I’ve thought about it a lot the past couple years. _A lot_. I’m pretty certain I want to have it. With girls,” he added, feeling it was worth saying. He knew Soo Yin, his eldest brother, fancied men. “It’s just… You’re so, well, you know, _beautiful_ , and I’m…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “This.”

“And what’s wrong with ‘this’?” she demanded. “You’re a good-looking man. Tall and slim. Nice legs. Handsome eyes. Strong nose. Great hair. You’re a fine catch, Chen. You’ve got nothing to feel inadequate about. But even if you weren’t so physically nice, it wouldn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think only beautiful people have sex? I know we have more than our fair share of good-looking people in Hazeldine, which can be hard on a young ego. But beauty isn’t a requirement. And, Lesson Two, you’d do well to resist comparing yourself to others. All you’ll do is waste time wishing you were something you’re not, and all the while, someone else may be wishing they were more like _you_. Or perhaps wishing that you’d notice them, or wishing you’d see your own quality. Do you follow me?”

He nodded.

“So you’re nervous because you’re a virgin — that’s alright. Almost everybody is nervous the first time they do something new. Tell me: were you nervous when you pulled that wolf off of James Campbell?”

“…No,” he said. “No, I wasn’t.”

“And have you ever done something like that before?”

“Obviously not,” he snorted. “But my instincts kicked in. I saw a threat. I stooped.”

“Well… maybe your instincts will kick in again?” She leaned back on her arms. “What do you think?”

Chen stood.

Crossed the room.

Sat beside Libby.

Slowly, he put his hand on her thigh.

“I think I’d like to try something new,” he said quietly. “What’s Lesson Number Three?”


	73. Chapter 73

“Do you know how to fire a gun?”

George looked up at Ianto, alarmed. “Yes. My father taught me when I was a boy. One of the rare times he took me hunting. Why?”

“You should load a hunting rifle with silver bullets and keep it close to hand,” was the grim reply. “One of the Winchesters. Not a shotgun — salt and silver buckshot isn’t good enough. That won’t have enough stopping power. You need solid silver rounds.”

“Ianto—”

“The wolf that attacked Mr. Campbell. It wasn’t a wolf. It was a were. It won’t take long for it to heal—”

“Ianto, calm down,” George interjected firmly, grasping his shoulders. “You’re shaking.”

“You may need to protect yourself, and Miss Preston,” he insisted.

“Alright, I will, but there’s no need to panic right now.” He rubbed his arms bracingly. “It’s not as if a slavering beast is about to burst through the door.”

The firm pressure of George’s hands began to wipe away the jittery tension. Half-reluctantly, Ianto found himself soothed by the touch. He huffed out a shaky breath, shoulders slumping and fingers unclenching.

“…That’s better,” George said with a smile. “Why don’t you go upstairs and wash up for the party? Seems pointless to keep the shop open at this point.”

“Not sure I care to go,” Ianto murmured.

“I think you should,” George said, but gently. “To keep an eye on Avonlea Reynolds, if nothing else. And when you get home, you can tell me everything that happened.”

Ianto hesitated, then nodded, and slowly pulled away.

By the time Celeste had returned, George could hear the gurgling of the lavatory pipes overhead. “What are you doing?” she demanded, prompting him to look up from loading a rifle.

“What Ianto begged me to do. He’s insistent I keep a loaded gun handy.”

“I didn’t realize he was so spooked,” Celeste said. “I could tell he was concerned, but…”

“He didn’t want to worry you, I’m sure. …Do your best to cheer him up tonight.”

She nodded resolutely. “Can I bring you back something? A dish? Some of Miss Pavelich’s ale?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just keep an eye on him — and watch yourself, too. As soon as the sun goes down, the spirits will make themselves known. They’re sure to sense your psychic gift and be drawn to you.”

“Nellie Hoobler already warned me.” She held up her wrist to show him the charm bracelet the metal witch had given her that morning. “Guaranteed to repel any spectral hands. Don’t worry about me; I’m well-guarded.”

***

“There was minor muscular damage, but Nova and I were very careful with the stitching,” Doc explained, hands and mouth moving simultaneously to ensure Rachel understood. “With enough rest and frequent refreshing of the bandages, he should heal quickly and with no permanent problems. Just some slight scarring. He should still have full range of movement.”

“Thank the Goddess,” said Lotte fervently while Rachel sat beside her unconscious father and clasped his hand. “Would it be safe to move him to the Pax tonight? Luisa sent Quince to warn that the storm may last two or three days; the ingredients turned out more powerful than she expected.”

The word had spread quickly; there had been a rush to reserve rooms at the Pax, which would be fuller than it had been in months, and Lotte, Josie, and Wint had spent the first half of the day refreshing all of the rooms. Some — the Reynolds children, Old Norbert Hogan — had already planned on over-nighting, but the foul-weather guest list had grown to include Caleb Rutledge, Blythe Carlyle, Bobbie Lacy, Eduardo Ruiz, and Leah Ginsberg. The Pendergasts and Campbells had been intending to check in, too — now it would just be in a slightly different arrangement, as Lotte intended to keep a close eye on the invalid in hers and Rosy’s suite.

“That won’t be a problem. We can carry him on a litter with a minimum of jostling.”

“Good.” Lotte reached out to smooth back James’ dark hair as Nova laid a comforting hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I’ll feel better, with everyone under the same roof.”

***

Hawley Tupelo walked toward the lightning oak, dressed in his usual flannel shirt and worn corduroys, each of his steps methodical. While the rest of Hazeldine behind him grew loud with music and dancing, he remained silent.

For now.

He was grateful there was no call for his usual work tonight, because tonight he had another job to do. A service he had done every solstice since he was a boy and his uncle had passed the task on to him.

He reached the oak.

Planted his feet and steadied himself.

Lifted the eagle feather in his hand, rubbed his thumb along the shaft wrapped tightly with tiny beads, and began the song.

His voice wasn’t as pure or as strong as it had once been. Some of the higher notes cracked now. But this wasn’t a song that required beauty, only intention and emotion. At the end of each verse, he flicked the feather toward a skull affixed to the oak’s branches. The song was a long one — there were many skulls — and he was hoarse by the time he finished.

But he finished in time, before the bottom curve of the sinking sun touched the horizon, and he felt the surge of freed power course down the leylines beneath his feet.

The way had been opened, the gate unbarred.

The path to Grandfather was now clear for any wandering spirits seeking peace.


	74. Chapter 74

“Can you repair as well as play?”

Ianto blinked at Yvonne Bae. “Pardon?”

The reporter held out a battered violin case. “I’ve let my tab at the store run up too high, and I asked Mr. Godfrey what it would take to clear out my debt. He said if I had an old violin I didn’t need any more, he’d take that as payment. Said it’d be nice to have an instrument on hand for you to play when he wanted to hear music after dinner. And I _do_ have one, but it’s not in great shape. The bow needs re-stringed and the bridge is cracked. So I wanted to make sure you could repair it before I handed it over. Otherwise it’s not a fair exchange, and I’ll hold off until Tony Noriega passes through again. Have him fix it before I give it to you.”

“Uh, yes, I know how to repair—”

“Great! Here.” Yvonne unceremoniously pushed it into his lap. “Phew, that feels good, canceling out that debt.” She adjusted her boater hat and strode off.

The latches on the case made a satisfying click as he flicked them up and lifted the lid. The instrument inside had certainly seen better days, but it was a fine piece. A craftsman had put a great deal of care and effort into its construction, and the flaws were mostly cosmetic, save for the crack along the bridge. But even that could be mended easily enough…

“What’ve you got there?” Celeste asked curiously, returning from accompanying Avonlea to the Pax’s lavatory.

“Miss Bae just handed it to me. To pay off her tab at the store.”

“Ooh, is that your own fiddle, Mr. Ianto? Can you play us something?”

“It’s not actually mine,” he clarified gently. “It belongs to Mr. Godfrey. And I can’t until I repair it — it’s not fit to play right now.”

“So, really, she handed you more work to do,” Celeste said.

“No, not really,” he said, smiling. “It’s not truly work if you enjoy doing it.”

“Well, I’m going to get another drink and something to eat. Can I bring you something?”

“No, thank you.” He stroked his forefinger gently along the rosined strings.

As she walked toward the tables, Celeste caught Yvonne’s eye and winked. The reporter lifted her glass in a cheerful salute.

***

James Campbell opened his eyes and surfaced out of a warm black pit to find a glass of something brown and capped with froth hovering in front of his face. Slowly, the broad face behind it came into focus.

“Drink up, my boy!” ordered Odessa.

He blinked blearily at his old baba, the mountainous woman who would always loom largest in his earliest memories. He had spent much of his childhood between her house — rich with the smell of hops and yeast — and Melissa East’s. His mother, Goddess rest her soul, had been too ill-equipped to truly raise him, unable to handle the challenges of a deaf son. The hedgewitch and Yaga had neatly filled any hole she might have left in his life, the former giving him a good start on his letters and the latter providing his first introduction to the power inside him that needed no speech to unleash.

“I will hold,” said Odessa, when he struggled to lift his arm. “You just drink. Good boy. …Feel better already, unh? Tastier than most medicines, I know! I put many herbs in, to give you back energy. Build up blood. You had close call, my boy, but you still have luck of cat. You will be fine. Hermann stitched you up, better than new. Lay back and rest now.”

James caught her skirt and tugged. Made a writing motion with his hand.

“Only quick message,” she said, sliding the stick of chalk between his fingers and holding the small slate steady. “Then sleep.”

_Rosy_ , he scrawled messily.

“Just fine. No scratch on her.”

_Wolf_

“Chen dropped him right in river. Clawed him up worse than he clawed you, too. Surely dead now.”

_Rach_

“Outside, with doctor’s boy and Lotte.”

_See them_

“…Only for moment.”

Odessa drew back and James swiftly took stock. He was propped up by several pillows in a large, soft bed — too large and soft to be one of the cots in Doc Pendergast’s surgery. The sheets smelled of lilac soap; of Lotte. And he was picking up peppermints, too…

His eye fell on the large jar of the red-and-white striped candies on the bedside table. Rosanna’s one real vice. She even carried a pouch of them in her saddlebags on patrols.

So now he knew where he was. But _how_ was he?

Weak as a kitten, but less fuzzy since Odessa’s beer — perhaps the only alcohol that _sharpened_ your senses. Everything left of his neck was completely numb; his shoulder and arm could be missing entirely for all he knew. Turning his head to look felt like an impossible, futile effort, and all he’d see would be bandages anyway, so he didn’t bother. Odessa said the Doc had stitched him up and the wolf was gone. That was enough to know for the moment.

James managed a wan smile as his daughter ran toward him, closely followed by Nova and Lotte.

_I love you_ , Rachel signed, hugging him carefully, kissing his cheek.

_Love you more. Sorry to scare you._

_Are you in pain?_ asked Nova, so grave and mature. _I have pills if so_.

_No. Numb right now._

_Doc will be in to check on you later_ , signed Lotte, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed by his legs. _And Ma is making you chicken soup. With extra carrots. Rosy wanted to be here, but she had to tend to things — she’ll visit later, too._

_She’s good?_

_Thanks to you_. Lotte’s eyes were bright, her smile sharp. _We were so worried, James_.

“Alright, good, good, time is up,” announced Odessa, waving her hands as if shooing away pests. “Boy needs sleep now. You talk more in couple hours. Go away.”

James snorted with amusement. Squeezed Rachel’s hand and then waved them off himself. Odessa adjusted the sheet and blanket over him, tucking them in at his side, and tapped his forehead again with the flat of her thumb. “Sleep now.”

And everything went black once more.


	75. Chapter 75

“Hmmph,” said Avonlea, flopping sullenly into the chair next to Ianto. The girl crossed her arms and glared at the dancers spinning before them.

“Why are you making a lemon face?” he asked.

Her pout was momentarily replaced by confusion. “‘Lemon face’?”

“You look like you just sucked on a sour lemon.”

“Oh. Well,” she huffed, sinking lower in her seat. “Ravi Chandrabar said he wouldn’t dance with me because I stomp all over his toes. And then he said he’s too big to play with little girls anymore, anyhow. Just ‘cause he’s ten now.”

“I see…” Ianto set aside his glass of punch and stood, offering her his arm. “Then could _I_ have this dance?”

Avonlea grinned and scrambled to her feet. “Yeah!”

Celeste was adding fried green tomatoes to her plate when Annamaria, standing beside her at the table with her own half-laden dish, said, “Aw, isn’t that sweet?” She looked up to see Ianto leading a beaming Avonlea hand-in-hand down the line of dancers, twirling and lifting the girl through the energetic steps of the reel.

“Mr. Llewellyn strikes me as such a nice man,” added Annamaria.

“He is,” replied Celeste, chest tight and face warm. “The nicest man.”

She watched them for a moment, relieved to see Ianto smiling as the little girl laughed, before finally turning away and settling in a chair to eat. Plucking off her gloves, she tucked them into her pockets—

And paused as her hand touched something small and hard.

It was the thimble she’d swept out from beneath George’s china hutch. She’d completely forgotten she had it, and looked at it now with interest. It was very old and well-worn, the once white porcelain yellowed like antique ivory. A red flower had been painted on one side — a rose, perhaps? — but half of it had rubbed away with frequent use.

She slipped it on; it was a little tight, intended for someone with slimmer, more delicate fingers. Not something George had ever used, then.

It must have belonged to Margaret Godfrey. She’d dropped it, or it had fallen from her sewing basket and rolled under the hutch thirty years ago.

Celeste carefully put it back into her pocket and reminded herself to return it to George after the storm.

***

“I’m rethinking the decision to return those silver bullets,” Seung said, swinging Jenny into the next step of the dance.

“Chen burned them badly,” she replied. “It could have been enough to kill them.”

“Until I see the body, I won’t believe that. …You’re absolutely certain it wasn’t your Wulver?”

“He’s not _mine_. And yes. There are at least two people who can vouch for him for every hour today. And a Wulver is truly incapable of killing unless it would save another’s life. They can’t even defend _themselves_ with lethal force.”

“So the stories say.”

“So my Aunt Zelda says,” Jenny insisted adamantly. “Shall I tell her you think she’s a liar next time she visits?”

Seung winced. “No, please. I take back any such insinuation.”

They dropped the topic and spiraled around Blythe — resplendent in blue tonight — and Caleb. Then a grinning Bram and Greer, and Ianto with Avonlea. Seung glanced along the row of chairs on the other side of the street, attention momentarily sharpening on Rodrigo, sitting beside the fashionable Miss Annamaria Doherty. The handsome pair was deep in conversation; she laughed at something he said, reaching out to touch his arm, and he smiled, a bright and genuine expression of pleasure.

Then his dark eyes flicked up, met Seung’s, and the smile disappeared instantly like a shutter snapping closed. Rodrigo looked away, angling his body closer to Annamaria, and resumed their conversation with charming aplomb.

“Stop torturing yourself,” Jenny whispered in his ear.

“You first,” he cut back knowingly, twisting her so she could see Liesel Gruben standing by the punchbowl, washing a child’s sticky face with a wet cloth.

“Bastard,” said Jenny lightly.

“Hag,” he responded airily.

“…Why are you my closest friend?”

“Because we’re honest with each other. Because you can tell me things you can’t tell anyone else, not even Lotte. Because I’ll never break your trust.”

“No,” Jenny said with conviction. “I think it’s because of your prowess in bed.”

“That goes without saying. …I won’t buy more bullets. But I _am_ going to keep a silver knife on me from now on.”

“Fine. Just don’t unsheathe it unless you absolutely have to.”


	76. Chapter 76

“Time is running short tonight,” announced Mayor Tupelo. Everyone eyed the western horizon, the sunset now a sliver of gold fast deepening into blue twilight. “Our spectral guests will be arriving soon. So I’ll be brief. I’d like us to take a moment to pay respect to three courageous men for their daring actions at Mr. Ingram’s barn-raising. Miss Perdillo has expended much time and magic to craft beautiful medals that are more than tokens of Hazeldine’s appreciation; these luck-infused badges of honor also grant Mr. Caleb Rutledge, Mr. Bram Hawk, and Mr. Ianto Llewellyn safe passage and free services anywhere in town. Gentlemen, would you please step forward? Miss East has asked for the right to bestow the honors.”

Smiling beatifically, Jenny pinned the coin-sized copper medallions onto Bram and Caleb’s waistcoats to enthusiastic applause. Leaning forward to do the same to a violently blushing Ianto, she murmured, “This is a gift you can’t give away. And it’s just an outward sign of your inner worth.”

“Thank you,” he whispered past the growing lump in his throat, even as that traitorous inner voice said, _You don’t deserve this_. _They wouldn’t be giving you this if they knew what you truly are…_

“And now, folks,” the mayor went on, “as darkness falls, remember to keep an eye on the little ones and Miss East’s jars. I know Miss Hoobler has been diligent with her protection charms, but we still need to be wary of any restless souls who may cause mischief. Miss Barton will be quick to offer any help that may be required, so please holler if you need her.”

Celeste felt a prickle of unease as the evening’s gaiety sharpened into vigilant anticipation. Lanterns and candles sparked into life as chairs and tables were carried to the very edges of Main Street, many tucked under the awnings of the promenade, as if clearing the way for a parade. “Why all the candles?” she asked Greer. “Why aren’t they turning on the new lamps?”

“Mr. Rutledge believes electricity can have an adverse affect on spirits,” the blacksmith said matter-of-factly, hefting up one of Odessa’s beer barrels, the muscles of her arms standing out prominently. “We don’t want to risk disrupting the processions along the leylines. Got your charm?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’ll prevent any of them from walking through you. It’s not pleasant. Feels like being thrown into a tub of ice water.”

“Celeste, do you mind if I stick close to you?” Annamaria asked, hurrying up, her tangerine dress a bright pop of color in the gray twilight. “I'm feeling rather self-conscious, and Mr. Alvarez said this is your first solstice here, too.”

“Rodrigo seems to be quite taken with you,” observed Bram, helping Greer with the second, fuller barrel. “Can’t think of the last time I saw him so animated and sociable.”

“I think it’s because I speak French,” she said, cooling herself with an ivory and lace fan attached to her wrist on a silken loop. “It must be a relief, to have the chance to speak your first language again. I can only imagine how exhausting it is to constantly have to translate things in your head before you say them. …Are you as anxious as I am?” she whispered for Celeste’s ear only. “What’ll these ghosts look like, do you think? Like Mr. Wint, normal except transparent, or more ghoulish?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” she replied honestly, resisting the urge to pace.

The air was growing closer, thicker, and there was a faint buzzing in her ears. It felt like the moment before lightning strikes, and her entire body was tensing in preparation for the thunderclap. The ends of her fingers tingled, then the edges of her ears and tip of her nose. She had an overwhelming urge to sneeze, but couldn’t, and shook her head irritably.

“Are you okay, Miss Celeste?”

Avonlea and Ianto had joined them under the awning in front of Bobbie’s Bits ‘N Bobs. The girl reached out with her free hand to squeeze Celeste’s. “Don’t worry,” she said with assurance. “You don’t need to make a lemon face. It’s not scary. It’s really pretty. You see people from all over the world, in all sorts of funny clothes. Papa says they must walk across the sea to get here. Do you think ghosts can walk on water, like Jesus in the Bible?”

“I think ghosts can do whatever they want to do, sweetie,” Celeste said with a laugh, picturing the scandalized face the nuns at the orphanage would’ve made had she said something so outrageous. “After all, Mr. Wint can walk through walls and float up stairs and make himself invisible.”

“I think being a ghost would be fun,” said the eight-year-old with innocent enthusiasm.

“No need to wish for that just yet,” Ianto said firmly. “That sort of transition is decades away for you.”

“Good evening, Mr. Tupelo,” Celeste said as a slender figure approached out of the deepening gloom. “Haven’t seen you all night.”

“Hello, Miss Preston. Miss Doherty. Mr. Llewellyn. Miss Reynolds.” Hawley patiently, politely, nodded at each in turn. “No, I’ve been a mite busy. Always am, these nights.” He settled into a nearby chair and calmly fished his knife and a small hunk of wood from his pockets. How the older man could see clearly enough to whittle, Celeste had no idea, with only a single lantern burning above his shoulder, but he unfolded his knife despite the risk to his fingers. “It’ll be a large group tonight,” he said somberly. “Been a lot of sickness Outside this year.”

Celeste opened her mouth — and saw her exhaled breath condense into a pale cloud, as if it was midwinter rather than midsummer. The prickly energy she had felt building up disappeared, replaced by a shiver-inducing chill. Down the street, a shout broke the silence.

_“Here they come!”_

“Oh my Lord…” Annamaria gasped, dropping her fan and craning her neck.

_I wasn’t wrong when I thought they were making space for a parade_ , Celeste thought through the awe.

At the end of Main Street, walking steadily toward them, was a vast crowd of people. People who glowed pearlescent in the darkness, lit from within, blue-ish white in color and sharply distinct from the night, as if they were cut-outs superimposed on a velvet screen. Some walked slowly, barely more than a shuffling trudge, while others stepped briskly like athletes taking a morning constitutional.

Men, women, children. Celeste saw mothers carrying babies. Young men in uniforms marching together in trained unison. Teenagers holding the hands of toddlers. Many were elderly but most — Lord, _so many_ — were young. People in their prime; those who had never reached their prime.

True to Avonlea’s word, far-flung cultures streamed past. Men wore turbans, the women veils and unusual hats. Faces were painted or tattooed. Feathers and beads were woven into hair, and figures were covered from head to toe in furs or practically nude. There was no separation of classes: a boy in rags walked beside a woman wearing a jeweled tiara. Celeste saw every skin color represented, sharp cheekbones and flat noses, pale eyes and dark, the tall and the short, the fat and the thin.

The majority of the ghosts strode past with a purposeful gait, eyes focused ahead, intent on their destination. They seemed oblivious to the silent, staring observers on either side of their path. Jenny’s jars, hanging from the lamp posts, glowed a steady and brilliant blue.

“They’re all going to Grandfather?” Celeste asked faintly.

“Yes. He sleeps above a door to the next world,” said Hawley. “He calls out to the lost in his dreams. Guides them here. The living to Hazeldine and the dead to him. These spirits couldn’t pass on when they first died. Something held them back. But now they’re ready to leave. So Grandfather is showing them the way. He’s one of the last guides left…”

The undertaker trailed off, leaning forward in his chair, as a small boy stopped directly before him and looked about in confusion, dark face wrinkling with panic. The nearest ghost jar began to flicker, pulsing with a green hue.

“He’s littler than Link,” Avonlea whispered, bottom lip quivering. Ianto put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

“It’s alright, son,” Hawley said, reaching out to pat the translucent boy’s shoulder. “No need to be afraid. Here.” He held out the wooden figure he’d been carving, a tiny dog sitting back on its haunches. “You’re almost there. Just keep on this road. Follow that nice lady right there, alright?”

“Thank you,” the boy said with a timid smile, voice like a penny rattling in a tin cup. He clutched the carving close and went on, disappearing into the crowd, and Celeste swallowed convulsively to stall the threatening tears.

“Sometimes, they need a helping hand,” Hawley said. “A few will still be afraid. Or angry.” He pointed up at the ghost jar, the green fading back into blue. “Blue for their presence. Green for fear. Red for dangerous anger. The fearful usually just need a little reassurance.”

“And the angry?” asked Annamaria.

“Uh oh,” Celeste said. Their eyes focused on the frenetically flashing red jar across the street. “I think we’re about to find out.”


	77. Chapter 77

“…my paints and charcoals, so we can work on the next design,” Caleb was saying to Blythe in front of Wint’s abandoned shop when — without warning — a pair of cold hands closed around his throat from behind.

“You should be with us,” hissed a voice, brittle as dried leaves, as the fingers tightened vise-like, choking the breath from him with a startled croak. “You’re dead, too. Twice dead!”

“Caleb!” Blythe shouted, grabbing his arm as he was hauled bodily backwards into the wave of spirits. She tried vainly to pull him back, her boots sliding across the promenade’s boards as she, too, was dragged into the street.

“Why aren’t you rotting? Why weren’t you buried?” demanded the voice. Caleb’s vision began to split and swim. He clawed at the insubstantial assailant, blunt fingernails passing through the spirit to scratch painful lines across his own bruising neck. “He went against God, you know! Broke divine law! You’re an ABOMINATION!”

The word was a hot knife plunged into his chest. Caleb wheezed as his heart twisted painfully, as Blythe screamed for help, and crumpled to his knees.

And then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, the strangling pressure was gone. Caleb fell forward into Blythe’s arms, coughing and gasping. With effort, he lifted his head from the seamstress’ shoulder to find Lotte standing beside them, staring at the assailant Caleb still hadn’t seen.

But it took a moment for him to recognize her, because the cold fury on her face was so foreign it was transformative. Gone was the warm and cheerful woman who tended the Pax’s bar and welcomed everyone as an instant friend. In her place was an implacable force that could not be gainsaid. As he stared, panting frantically for breath, her soft and pretty features seemed to melt away, until all that remained was a bare, ominously grinning skull.

“You have forfeited your chance for peace,” Lotte said, voice as deep and hollow as the tolling of a church bell. Surely, such a voice could not come from a woman. “You have crossed the last remaining line. I cast you asunder, as if you never were.”

She reached out past his line of sight and there was a deafening sound of something bursting, a powerful shockwave that rocked Caleb and Blythe, nearly pushing them to the ground. A metallic, sulfuric smell Caleb had always associated with his father’s laboratory filled his nose, leaving a bitter tang on his lips, and his eyes burned as he blinked.

Lotte looked down at him, and he must have imagined all of the otherworldliness, because she was the same as always, apple-cheeked and smiling — though the smile was wan and her usually bright eyes were tired.

“Are you alright?” she asked with genuine concern, kneeling next to Blythe.

“I think so,” he rasped, gingerly touching his throbbing neck.

“Let’s get you into the Pax and have Doc put some ointment on that,” Lotte said practically, taking one arm and letting Blythe clasp the other, the pair of women getting him to his feet between them.

As they paused to let him find his footing, Caleb realized the dead continued to walk past them as if nothing had happened. The spirits just stepped calmly around Blythe and Lotte.

Around the women — and through him.

Yet he didn’t feel the unnerving cold that everyone always reported with spectral contact. And — he glanced down at the watch chain where he had hooked Nellie Hoobler’s repelling charm, shocked to find it still there.

“Why isn’t the charm working?” he asked, bewildered. “And why don’t I feel the ghosts?”

_ABOMINATION! You’re dead, too. Twice dead!_

“I don’t know,” Lotte said simply. “Right now, let’s focus on your injuries.”

“My whole life, I’ve never seen something like that,” Blythe said, badly shaken. Caleb sank into a chair and she quickly leaned over him, reaching for his collar button as Lotte grabbed a clean towel and a bottle of brandy from behind the bar. “I’ve never seen a spirit behave like that before. With such violence.”

“Solstices are the only night such a spirit can enter Hazeldine,” Lotte said heavily, pouring Caleb a glass. “Pop has to remove the protective wards to allow them all down the leylines, which means we run the risk of the nasty ones coming in, too. I’m usually more observant. I try to stay near the oak, to catch the malevolent ‘geists before they get any further, but with James… I’m sorry. I was distracted tonight, and you had to pay the price for that.”

“You saved my life, Lotte,” Caleb said hoarsely. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’ll go get Doc. Then I need to get back out there and keep a better eye on things.”

“Thank the Goddess for exorcists,” Blythe said as Lotte disappeared into her suite. She gently folded back his high collar, her fingers cool against the inflamed skin.

“How does it look?” he asked, swallowing and tilting his chin up with a wince.

“I’ll just say I hope it hurts half as bad as it looks,” she said sympathetically.

“I never knew Lotte was an exorcist.”

“There hasn’t been much call for her gift over the years, luckily. …She told me once she inherited it from her father. That she has a connection with death. Hard to believe, isn’t it? If anybody’s the antithesis of death, it’s Lotte Barton…”

Blythe met his eyes as she trailed off and he saw the lingering fear in hers. Her hand cupped his jaw, the thumb lightly caressing his scar.

Before he could speak, she leaned closer and kissed him, lips firm yet soft over his. Hesitantly, he laid his hand against her side.

“…A-hem.”

Blythe leapt back, blushing, to find Dr. Pendergast smiling at them, Gladstone bag in one hand and the other tucked into his pocket.

“Does the patient require more mouth-to-mouth?” he asked with a wink. “If so, please continue. I am sure he’d enjoy it much more from you than me, Mrs. Carlyle.”


	78. Chapter 78

“Good Lord,” said Annamaria, combing through her wet curls as Celeste brushed her teeth. “Talk about an exciting night.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Celeste hummed around her brush.

“But it was beautiful, too, wasn’t it? Beautiful and dreadfully sad. All of those children… What do you think? About what Mr. Tupelo said?”

“Which bit?”

“That the door to Heaven is under that hill?”

Celeste hesitated. “…I’m not sure what I think. But then I’ve never been all that religious. What do _you_ think?”

Annamaria’s comb stilled. The pretty face in the lavatory mirror became somber. She reached for the first ribbon to wind up a lock of hair. “…I guess I still believe in Heaven. But I can’t really call myself all that religious anymore, either. After all, I refused to honor and obey my husband. Some would say that’s already earned me a one-way ticket downstairs.”

Celeste spat loudly in the sink. “Anyone who believes that is an idiot. Divorce isn’t a sin, and neither is standing up for yourself. Ever notice how religion always benefits men and punishes women? The Bible says men are inherently superior and should always be in charge, because a woman is to blame for everything bad that’s ever happened to humanity. Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

She sighed, rinsed her brush, and dropped it into her cup. “There are plenty of other stories out there that are far better than the Bible. Hell, those penny dreadfuls you enjoy so much are better.”

Annamaria looked shocked for a moment, then laughed. “Thank you, Celeste,” she said. “You cheer me up in the strangest of ways.”

“You’re welcome. Good night, Annamaria.”

“Good night. Sweet dreams!”

Back in her room, Celeste laid her watch, charm bracelet, and gloves on the bedside table before dropping the day’s clothes into the basket. There was a loud clink, and something rolled across the floor to stop against her slippered foot.

She bent and picked up Margaret Godfrey’s thimble, still warm with the heat of her body and its day in her pocket. The brass frame creaked as she sat on the edge of the bed and regarded it, rolling it gently between her bare thumb and forefinger.

It was just a thimble. Probably mass-produced in a factory not unlike the one she’d spent years toiling in. Just a tool, something to protect your fingertips from sharp sewing needles.

But, as Celeste stared at it, she felt the mattress beside her dimple, as if someone else had just sat down beside her. A shiver rippled along her back. Her breath fogged before her.

“Margaret?” she whispered.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

***

An insistent rattling at the front door made Ianto lunge off the mattress he’d just reclined upon. He yanked on his trousers and hurried through the store, certain there had been another catastrophe. It was nearing midnight, and the steady stream of specters had dwindled to ones and twos hours ago, but there was still time for another ghostly attack.

When he saw Celeste’s face on the other side of the glass, his apprehension shifted into confusion. What was she doing back here so late? Why hadn’t she used her key to let herself in?

Why on _Earth_ was she standing there in only her white nightgown and slippers?

“Miss?” he asked, tugging open the door, belatedly wishing that he’d put on his shirt as well as his trousers. “Is something wrong?”

She stepped past him almost dreamily, eyes wide as she stared around her. “It’s hardly changed,” she murmured. “All these years…” Her eyes focused on the shirtless, bewildered man beside her. “You’re Ianto,” she said with dawning recognition.

He stiffened as she abruptly hugged him. “Thank you,” she said in his ear. “For looking after him. For caring.”

“Miss?” Ianto gulped, pulling away in alarm. This wasn’t right. Her voice sounded odd. She wasn’t speaking sense. Her eyes looked glazed. And—

He stepped back.

She smelled of lily of the valley, not vanilla.

She didn’t smell like Celeste Preston.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t stay long. But I have to see him.”

Fear spicing his blood, Ianto followed the woman wearing Celeste’s face up the book-lined staircase. “George!” he shouted. “George, something’s wrong!”

“What the hell—” Floorboards squeaked and creaked as they entered the parlor. A moment later, the last bedroom door at the end of the hall swung open and George appeared, hastily tucking his shirt-tails into his pants. “Celeste? What are you—”

“Georgie,” said the woman breathlessly, tears glittering brightly in her eyes. She stepped toward him. “You’re as handsome as I knew you’d be. Just as tall as your father.”

George Godfrey froze, a statue in rumpled clothes. The annoyance bled from his face, as did the color, leaving behind stark shock and disbelief.

It was impossible.

And yet, she _sounded_ like her. He could even smell her old perfume, fresh and new again. “…Mother?”

“Sweetheart, please, you must listen to me.” She rushed to him, reaching up to cup his face. “I only have until midnight. Miss Preston is giving me this chance — she’s a good woman, and I want you to remember that later.”

“How is… Why…” he stammered, covering her cold hands with his.

“I had to come back to tell you the truth. To try and undo what your father did. He meant well, raising you the way he did, but he was wrong. He made a terrible mistake. You mustn’t deny your gift, Georgie. You have to embrace it. Use it without fear.”

“How can you say that?” George demanded angrily. “After what it did to you?”

She shook her head, expression gentle but adamant. “A sickness killed me, not my empathy. A malignant disease that grew slowly in my breast. It was in me before I had you. Your father refused to accept that when no doctor could cure me. He needed to blame something, so he blamed our gift. And you’ve suffered for it. Please, sweetheart. Believe me. Have I ever lied to you before?”

George stared into beseeching eyes and bowed his head. “…No.”

“I know it’s frightening, but listen to your instincts. Practice, and push yourself past your fears. You’ve been so alone,” she murmured sadly, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “But you don’t have to stay alone. If you use your gift, if you open yourself up to it, you can finally be happy, darling. Let them in, and stop hoarding your heart. You just have to be brave. Be my valiant knight again. Do you understand?”

The cuckoo clock in the kitchen began to sing.

She hugged him fiercely. Pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you to the moon and back, Georgie,” she said with a smile.

And went limp in his arms. The rich scent of lily of the valley disappeared, replaced by fresh soap and faint vanilla. George looked down at Celeste’s sleeping, slack face, then up at the silent Ianto. “Am I dreaming?” he whispered.

“No. Or we’re both having the same dream.”

For a moment longer, George stood frozen and expressionless. Then he hefted the unconscious woman up and carried her into his bedroom, reappearing seconds later and drawing the door closed behind him. Without a word, he strode past Ianto and into the kitchen. Took a glass from the cupboard and turned on the faucet.

It was half filled when it slid from his fingers and crashed loudly into the sink, shattering into a dozen pieces. George gripped the edges of the counter as tears coursed down his face, fighting the powerful urge to sob.

Then Ianto’s arms wrapped around him and he gave in to the old pain as the Welshman hugged him. His wordless support, the warm tactility, seemed to open a dam inside George’s head. He cried as he hadn’t since his mother died, the old wound raw again, and Ianto held him tightly through it all, forehead pressed to his shaking back.

They said nothing. There was no need to.


	79. PART SEVENTEEN - STORM-CALLING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * John "Blackjack" Solomon (Jon Bernthal) - a cardsharp.

**P A R T S E V E N T E E N — S T O R M — C A L L I N G**

Mere minutes after a gorgeous golden dawn, Luisa Mariposa — wearing a full-skirted white dress, the front beautifully embroidered with a cascading rainbow of lush flowers — rode her black-freckled mare down a silent and empty Main Street. She was hatless, her thick ebony hair spilling over her shoulders, several curls pinned up in back by a silver comb.

When she dismounted, she untied a satchel from her saddle with exceeding care and set it at her feet before slapping her mare’s rump, sending the animal galloping down the street toward the open door of the public stables.

Quince the shrike, perched on her mistress’ shoulder, watched with bright black eyes as Luisa opened the satchel and began unwinding the layers of fabric cushioning the objects within, slowly revealing five large clear glass bottles, the fat necks stoppered with wax-sealed corks. Each bottle was lifted out as if it was liable to explode, and gently set down in a wide ring around the weather witch.

“Are we ready, my precious?” she asked her familiar in lilting Spanish, taking her position at the center of the circle, hands closing around the folds of her skirt.

***

“That is a witch with _style_ ,” said Bobbie Lacy to Wint Boessenecker, sipping coffee in his pink silk robe as they watched Luisa through a half-shuttered window of the Pax’s saloon. “I asked her once why she always gets so gussied up before she works her magic, and you know what she told me? Said half of it was ceremonial, and half of it was making sure she looked damned good if it turned out to be her last day on Earth. Gotta admire a gal with that sort of attitude.”

“Sure do. …You can almost hear the music, can’t you?” said the ghost as Luisa began her dangerous dance, skirt twirling and flashing to reveal a red petticoat beneath the white dress, her polished black shoes and silver jewelry gleaming in the bright sunlight.

It was akin to a flamenco, full of sharp turns and fast-paced footwork, but there was no furiously strumming guitarist to accompany her, no other dancers to twirl and spin around. She danced to a song only she heard, as sweat began to bead on her forehead.

The first bottle’s cork popped out, sending white smoke billowing up into the air. Luisa’s tempo changed sharply as she shifted into an entirely new dance.

“If I was a witch, I think I’d be a weather witch,” Bobbie went on thoughtfully, smoothing a hand over the purple kerchief wrapped around his head.

“Really? Even knowin’ how dangerous it is?”

“Sure thing, honey. Being yourself is always dangerous, if you do it right,” he said saucily with an arched eyebrow. “And when I go out, I want it to be with a bang.”

As if on cue, another bottle popped, adding green smoke to the white hovering overhead. The light outside began to change, fading from a golden yellow to a flinty grey.

“How far is she?” asked Josie as she approached the men by the window, fully dressed and holding a cup of her favorite rosehip tea.

“Two so far,” answered Wint. “Three to go.”

“Must say I’m surprised to see you up already, Bobs. Since when are you such an early riser?”

“I can get my fine ass out of bed when there’s a show worth watching,” was the pert reply. “While we’re all stuck in here today, how about you let me do you up, Jo? I brought all my paints with me.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Well, most,” he conceded. “Please? When I’m done, you won’t recognize yourself.”

“And what’s wrong with who I am now?” Josie asked with a laugh.

“Absolutely nothin’,” said Wint loyally, giving her that messy smile that still managed to make her preen.

“What Wint said — but it can be fun to pretend to be somebody else every now and then,” Bobbie insisted. “Haven’t you ever played make-believe?”

“Oh, fine, Bobbie, if it’ll make you happy.”

The third bottle opened with a puff of red smoke. The temperature plummeted like a stone. Bobbie’s and Josie’s ears popped painfully. “Ack,” said the Pax’s cook, tugging her earlobe. “I hate that part.”

The trio turned their attention fully on the witch’s dance. She was more than halfway done and each moment that passed became exponentially more dangerous. One foot out of place could spell disaster. If her stamina failed, the pent up power she was guiding could ricochet back through her body. The growing cloud of magical smoke could be sent into her lungs rather than the wide sky above.

Luisa Mariposa was literally dancing with death now.

Bobbie gripped his mug and muttered a prayer to any deity that would listen to him. Josie felt as if she was standing in front of an empty gallows, waiting for the accused to be led to the noose. The cook slid her empty hand into Wint’s; the ghost squeezed it gently.

The fourth bottle’s yellow smoke joined the colors swirling above the witch’s head, still contained in the circle she’d marked on the street. A punishing wind began to howl between the stores, rattling at the shutters and eaves.

On she danced, as yet untouched at the center of it all…

Just when the three watching were sure she had to be nearing the end of her reserves — just when their own anxiety reached the screaming point — blue smoke burst from the final bottle.

At the heart of the bespelled cloud bloomed a black spot. It rushed out to the edges like a drop of ink falling on a paper, absorbing and blotting out the individual colors.

Luisa’s skirt belled around her as she dropped to her knees, flinging up her arms and falling onto her back, releasing the storm cloud from its invisible barriers with a triumphant shout that was drowned out by a cataclysmic roll of thunder. The thick walls of the Pax trembled in its wake.

The cloud billowed up and up like an expanding, massive quilt, filling the sky from edge to edge. Lightning crackled and forked between roiling peaks and valleys. A panting Luisa climbed unsteadily to her feet and started toward the Pax, a hand pressed against the stitch in her side.

Josie opened the door and stepped toward her, only to pull back when Luisa waved at her sharply. “No!” she called. “You help me, you endanger yourself—”

There was a sudden heart-stopping flash.

The smell of burning ozone.

Every hair on Josie’s body vibrated and stood on end as the following thunder boomed. She blinked frantically, momentarily blinded, already sickened by what she knew she would see in the aftermath. _At least a lightning bolt is a quick way to go_ …

But as the floating circles swimming across her vision began to fade, she saw Luisa still standing several yards away, still smiling, one hand raised just above her head. Hovering over her palm was a perfectly round ball of lightning. “See what I mean?” the weather witch said smugly, tossing the crackling ball back up into the sky.

“How in the ever-loving hell did you do that?” demanded a gaping Bobbie.

“A lady’s jewelry is like her armor,” said Luisa, flashing a handful of silver rings at the milliner and stepping inside just as a solid sheet of rain crashed down over Hazeldine. “Especially when it’s made by a seventh generation witch. I need one of your full breakfasts, Josie. I am _starving_.”


	80. Chapter 80

Valentine woke to an empty room, an open door banging against the wall in a cold wind, and the drumming sound of torrential rain. Swinging his legs off the cot, shoving his feet into his boots, he rushed to the doorway with a joyous grin stamped on his face.

 _Thank Fortuna for Luisa Mariposa_ , he thought devoutly, the old weight lifting from his heart. The deputy watched his partner as he stood in the downpour in only his nightshirt, hands raised to the sky, laughing with boyish delight.

“Does anything smell better than rain?” Cotton shouted, running his hands over his face, through his darkening hair, across his chest, as if he stood in a shower.

“Not hardly,” said Val, leaning his shoulder against the door, content to stand there and watch Cotton’s revelry. The tall deputy splashed through the growing puddles and cheered each thunderclap, practically jigging as the day darkened and the wind howled like a wounded animal.

Finally, nearly an hour of cavorting later, he jogged back into the jail, hair and see-through shirt plastered flat against his rosy skin. The smell of petrichor clung to him, and the rich scent of wet leaves, as he threw his dripping arms around Valentine, giggling and giddy.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Val murmured, balancing on his toes and hugging him tightly. Rain pooled around their feet.

“I’ve missed you, too, boy-o.” Cotton caught his face in cool, slippery hands and kissed him thoroughly. “Mmmh, you taste so good.” He kissed Val’s cheeks, his forehead, his mouth again, then turned his increasingly impatient attention to his pants.

“Bossy boots,” Val chided as he tugged at his buttons, though they both knew he was just as eager, just as hungry and excited. These moments of passion were rare for them, and he savored each one.

It took some effort to extricate Cotton from his clinging shirt. His damp hair stuck out like porcupine quills once it was yanked past his ears. The unceremoniously dropped garment made a loud _splat!_ against the floor.

They staggered back to the cot. Made the metal frame squeal ominously beneath their combined weight, Cotton’s body slick and supple over Val’s. He was no longer a shell of a man, but a whole person — one who knew and loved him, who laughed and caressed and smiled with intent focus…

***

An earth-shattering crash catapulted Celeste up from the pillow and into consciousness. Gasping and clutching the quilt to her chest, she opened her eyes to an unfamiliar, undeniably masculine room. From floor to ceiling stretched bookcases crammed with leather-bound books. There was a high-backed cane chair in the corner by the window. Atop a tall dresser stood a plain white ceramic pitcher and washbowl. At the foot of the immense bed sat a large green trunk, and the bedside table contained a stack of books, an empty water glass, a small lightning jar—

And George’s silver snuffbox.

 _How did I end up in_ this _bed_? wondered a bewildered Celeste, rubbing at her temples and half-tempted to help herself to a headache powder. There was something niggling at her, something she should remember…

The grey-cast room went white with another crack of lightning. Rain lashed at the tall window to her left, obscuring everything outside behind a shifting, silvery sheet that aped spilled mercury.

 _Luisa’s storm_ , she thought. The dangerous, magical one that could last several days.

Meaning she was stuck here until the rain abated.

In just her sleeveless nightgown and slippers, it would seem.

Unsettled, confused, Celeste slid out of the tall bed and took George’s green flannel robe off the hook on the back of the door. It was three sizes too big — the man was truly a giant — so she folded the cuffs back several times to free her hands; there was nothing to be done for the way the hem would trail behind her like a train.

Steeling herself, she opened the door and stepped into the dim hall. Looking down it she could see along the full length of the second floor living space, straight into the darkened kitchen. She’d expected to see George and Ianto eating breakfast, but the table was empty.

Hands thrust into the robe’s pockets, she crept toward the parlor, feeling curiously disoriented. Something about the change in perspective, approaching from George’s bedroom, made the apartment feel different. This was the private half, and she had only ever been in the public portion — the kitchen, the lavatory, the parlor — before.

The hall opened into the parlor and she froze. George and Ianto were sprawled in the two armchairs, asleep with their legs stretched out and chins tucked on their shoulders. She stared from one to the other and strained to catch the memory flitting in the back of her mind like an alarmed minnow.

George’s eyes cracked opened. He focused on her blearily and lifted a clumsy hand to rub the grit from them. “What time is it?”

At the question, Ianto jolted awake in the opposite chair, sitting up and looking far more alert than George, who yawned like a lethargic bear.

“No idea,” Celeste said. “…How did I get here?”

George’s hand stilled mid-rub. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head.

The men looked at one another. Their grim expressions did little to comfort her.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” asked George.

She closed her eyes and began replaying the previous night. “There was the procession of spirits. One attacked Caleb. Lotte destroyed it. Ianto walked me and Avonlea to the Pax after most of the ghosts had gone by. I took a shower. Braided my hair and brushed my teeth. Annamaria came into the lavatory to put her curls up for bed, and we talked. I went back to my room…”

Celeste’s eyes widened. The fogginess was beginning to dissipate. “There was a woman. In my room. A ghost but… not a ghost? She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t… completely here? Like a ghost of a ghost. She said she had passed on but was reaching back through the door. She needed my help to deliver a message before the solstice ended and the door closed again. I could help her because of what I am, because of my gift. She asked me for permission. Asked me to be her voice. She—”

The image of the thimble loomed larger than life in her mind’s eye. Celeste met George’s gaze, raising her hands to cover a gaping mouth. “It was your mother, wasn’t it?” she murmured behind her fingers, feeling cold and hot all at once. _Oh God. I told her yes. I actually let a spirit possess me_.

George stood and walked toward her, expression unreadable.

He stretched out his hand. Waited patiently for her to take it in hers.

“Thank you,” he said in the softest voice she had ever heard from him, gently squeezing her fingers. The sincere gratitude in his dark eyes stole her breath.

“What did she say?” she asked when she’d rediscovered her voice.

The man’s hand slipped away. “She wanted me to know the empathy wasn’t what killed her. She begged me to stop repressing mine.”

 _I was right_ , she thought with a tiny thrill of vindication.

“I’ll make us some breakfast,” George said brusquely, turning toward the kitchen. “For the time being, you can borrow one of the shop’s dresses.”

***

Celeste stared unseeing at the rack. She was trying to recall what it had felt like. The sensation of another woman’s spirit in her body. Having someone else’s thoughts in her head. Words in her mouth. But the experience — like her arrival at the store and everything that had preceded her waking up in George Godfrey’s bed — was as blank and black as a freshly washed slate.

Perhaps that was a good thing. She recalled how upsetting it had been to feel Cottonwood Webster’s bizarre mind. Perhaps hers was protecting her. Or Margaret had, as yet another act of kindness.

“The pink.”

She looked up at Ianto. He’d changed into fresh clothes and combed his black curls. “Pardon?”

“The pink one would look lovely on you,” he said with a shy smile. “Or the green.”

“Oh.” Color flooded her cheeks. She unhooked the dress from its hanger and draped it over her arm. “Thank you. …What was she like? Margaret?”

“She was gentle,” the Welshman said. “Soft-spoken but firm. She loves George very much.” He hesitated. “But it scared me, miss. When I first realized you weren’t yourself.”

 _Poor Ianto_ , Celeste thought. He was a born worrier, but yesterday had given him plenty of fuel for the flames. Impulsively, she stepped closer and hugged him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

She’d meant it to be a quick, reassuring embrace. But Ianto’s arms encircled her in return. His chin pressed against her shoulder and she felt his breath feather across her neck, his flared fingers firm at her back.

It occurred to her that the last person to hug her like this — the last person whose embrace she had actually wanted and enjoyed — had been Sibyl. It had been seven years since she’d been touched so kindly.

It felt good. It felt like coming home, though how she knew that she wasn’t sure, since she’d never had a home that mattered.

And it hurt, too, in a way she couldn’t name.

She pulled back first, averting her eyes and turning away to hide the turmoil from Ianto. It would wound him, her confusion, and that was the last thing she wanted. “I need to go get dressed,” she said, glad her voice didn’t shake. “Give George back his robe.”


	81. Chapter 81

Avonlea climbed onto one of the tall stools at the bar. “Miss Josie?”

“Yes, dear?” the cook smiled as she lifted hotcakes from her pan onto the girl’s plate.

“Miss Celeste isn’t in her room.”

“She’s probably in the washroom, then.”

Avonlea shook her head. “No, I checked there, too.”

Josie frowned.

“I’ve never enjoyed thunderstorms, but I must admit — this is the perfect time to read a really chilling story. Did I actually beat Celeste to breakfast for once?” Annamaria asked, settling on the stool beside Avonlea and laying a book on the bar.

“No—”

“She’s missing!” exclaimed Avonlea, wide-eyed. “Could a ghost have gotten her? Carried her away?”

“Pshaw,” said Wint as he refilled Luisa’s coffee cup. “She had one of Miss Nellie’s charms, remember?”

“Has she ever sleepwalked before?” asked Leah, sitting at a table with Caleb and Blythe.

“Perhaps she had a vision?” the seamstress suggested.

“Alright, enough speculation,” Josie said, grabbing the kettle and pouring a fresh cup of tea. “I’ll solve this mystery right now if y’all will calm down.” Curling her hands around the porcelain cup, she stared down into the yellow-green liquid as it settled. Steam wafted around her face. The kitchen witch let her eyes glaze. “…She’s at the store,” she announced a moment later with conviction. “Having breakfast with Mr. Godfrey and Ianto.”

“What’s she doing over there?” wondered Bobbie, looking up from the lace tatting array he was explaining to Roland. “Thought she was keeping company with us for the storm?”

“Guess she changed her mind,” Josie said with a shrug.

“That girl should just move in with those two,” Bobbie said with a wave of his hand. “Anybody with half an eye can see the direction that whole thing is moving in.”

“What do you mean, Auntie?” asked Roland.

“It’s kissing stuff, Roly-Poly, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Oh, then no thank you.” The boy pulled a disgusted face.

“Kissing stuff?” said Avonlea eagerly.

“Now, now, that’s enough prying into other people’s private affairs,” Josie interjected. “Behave, Bobbie — and eat up, everybody. I’m itching to start a game of Whist.”

***

“Boy, I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!”

Val chuckled. “After we get dressed, we can run over to the Pax. Have Josie make you a salad big enough to swim in.”

Cotton tucked an arm behind his head. “How long was I gone this time?”

“Almost three months.”

The hand stroking Valentine’s back stilled. “Shit. …How’re the farms doing?”

“Not great.” Val hesitated. “That’s mostly why Rosanna asked Luisa to bring the storm. Because the farms needed the rain.”

“Don’t be angry with the sheriff. She’s got everyone’s best interests at heart.”

“Sometimes I hate how forgiving you are. How you can put everyone else before yourself. Makes me feel like a heel.”

“You couldn’t be a heel if you tried. How’s Ma?”

“She’s fine. Still sleeping.”

“I should stop worrying about her,” Cotton said, scratching the side of his nose. “Her roots go deep enough to survive anything short of an axe.”

“You’re just being a good son. Worrying about her.”

Cotton combed his fingers through the shaggy, sandy hair along Val’s nape. “You need a trim, Mr. Collins.”

“Hmm,” Val hummed noncommittally against his chest.

“You need to look after yourself, too, you know,” Cotton said. “While you’re taking care of me.” He sighed. “Wish it could be the other way around once in a while.”

“What?”

“Wish I could return the favor. Look after you for a change. It’d make me feel a helluva lot less guilty.”

Val pushed himself up. “You take care of me, Web. All the time. You’re taking care of me right now.”

“Really?”

“Yep. All you gotta do is just be.” He leaned down and kissed him. “How about we go get that salad now, hmm? Bust out Wint’s old chessboard and play a few rounds?”

“Alright,” Cotton grinned, kicking back the sheet. “I’ll even let you pick the color.”

“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” Val warned as he pulled up his pants.

Cotton snorted. “Have I ever?”

***

The morning passed quickly with card games, music, and enthusiastic conversation. At the piano, Wint played whatever requests were shouted to him. A dramatically-improved Cotton and smiling Val hunched over a chess board near Eduardo Ruiz, who had stacks of leather ledgers around him as he balanced the town’s accounts and updated its official record in his compact, perfect handwriting.

In one corner, Bedford and Jacob Reynolds were occupied teaching littlest brother Link how to play jacks, while Roland sat with Blythe drawing his own dress designs with Caleb’s art supplies. Avonlea perched in Bobbie’s lap while the milliner braided her frizzy curls and told her the story of how the peacock got his outrageous feathers.

Thirteen-year-old Robert Reynolds was deep in conversation with Old Man Hogan, discussing the best way to increase yields of root vegetables and taking copious notes. Annamaria and Josie had disappeared into the kitchen an hour ago, and the smell of something delicious baking wafted into the saloon.

“How’s James?” Caleb asked Hermann, who had emerged from Lotte and Rosanna’s room and settled at the bar with a tall glass of sweet tea.

“Marvelous,” grinned the doctor. “Scabbing nicely. And how is the neck today? Sorer than last night, I expect.”

Caleb nodded gingerly. He’d had to forgo buttoning his collar as usual, but the bandage made a high collar superfluous anyway. “Mrs. Carlyle helped me tend to it this morning.”

“She is a fine woman,” Doc said.

“Yes, she is,” Caleb agreed.

Still smiling, Hermann patted his back as he slipped away. “Checkers, Ed?” he called jovially.

Caleb looked over his shoulder at Blythe, who was studying Roland’s drawing and offering suggestions. The boy stared at her with obvious hero worship, tilted chin resting in his palm. She glanced down at him and smiled, a lightness about her that Caleb hadn’t seen in years.

“She’s happy again. Not so long ago, I was afraid that smile was gone forever. You know, a lot of it is your doing.”

He slowly turned back to face Lotte. “You really think so?”

“Not think. Know.” She poured herself a coffee, offered him the same, and spooned two scoops of sugar into her cup. “You’re just what she needs. Gentle and patient and quiet. And she’s what you need, too. Kind and attentive and earnest.”

Caleb looked down at his unsweetened drink. “…She told me last night that you have an affinity with death.”

Lotte stilled behind the bar. “Quite a conversational shift.”

“I’m not trying to pry—”

“No, it’s alright. What’s on your mind?”

“The ghost that attacked me. Did you hear what it said?”

“No.”

Blythe hadn’t either — it seemed the venomous words had been intended for his ears only. Perhaps they had been entirely inside his head. “It called me an abomination. It said that I belonged with them, with the dead, because I was dead, too. That ‘he’ went against God.”

Caleb couldn’t bring himself to meet Lotte’s eyes, but he also had to ask the question — had to know the answer. “Was it telling the truth? I keep thinking about my accident. The train derailment. What if I _didn’t_ survive it? What if Pa… All his experiments and tinkering… What if he brought me back in some unnatural way?”

He finally looked up at the pretty brunette standing behind the bar. “Am I still human?”

Lotte set her cup down with a _thunk_. Tucked a hand under his chin and stared hard into his eyes for what felt like forever, but could in actuality be only three or four heartbeats.

“Without a doubt,” she announced, steel in her voice. She pinched him and pulled her hand away. “Dead bodies don’t have souls in them. The dead don’t feel pain, or want. You’re not a dead man, Caleb. You’re a living, breathing, soul-filled human. Whatever your father did, it didn’t turn you into some sort of monster. Monsters don’t worry that they’re monsters.”

The cold claws that had been closing around his heart since the attack drew back. Disappeared. He breathed easier, some of the tension fading from his broad shoulders. “How do you know these things?”

“My father.”

“He was an exorcist, too?”

“No.” Lotte paused to finish her coffee. “He’s a Ferryman. For Death and Fate,” she said nonchalantly.

Caleb blinked at her. “Come again?”

“Father’s an immortal being who conducts the living and the dead to their proper destinations. More coffee?”


	82. Chapter 82

“Brrrr,” shivered Annamaria as a roll of thunder boomed overhead, the rolling pin in her hands halting over the lump of dough.

“You can’t possibly be cold in here,” Josie said. She straightened from an oven, using the folds of her apron to lift out the third pan of tarts.

“I’m not cold. I just hate thunder. And lightning. And howling wind.” She looked askance at the rattling, shaking shutters over the nearest window. “When I was a girl, I’d run to my parents’ room during storms. And they’d scold me for being irrational and ring for one of the servants to take me back to my own bed.”

“Your parents sound as bad as the Cold Fish,” Josie said with a disapproving frown. “‘Irrational’. Huh. Makes me want to smack some feeling into them.”

Annamaria winced at another crash, as sharp as a whip cracking, and leaned heavily on the pin.

“Here,” said Josie, bustling to a cupboard and pulling out a jar of what looked like pink marshmallows. “Take two.”

“And put them in my ears?” the divorcee suggested.

“If you want sugar-coated earwax, sure,” she replied. “No, Miss Sassybritches, you suck on them. They soothe frazzled nerves. Po Tran calls them Squashies. I make them for him and Ellen Hegel, mostly.”

Annamaria had met Miss Hegel her second day in town, at the Jade and Pearl. The town spinster — in that she was an accomplished weaver and knitter; Annamaria had no idea as to her love life, though she’d stressed she was _Miss_ Hegel — was an extremely freckled young woman with a sharp chin, beautiful red curls, and expressive brown eyes who had a vibrating air of restlessness about her. She was friendly and polite, but the entire time they talked her right knee had bounced conspicuously between them. “I apologize,” she said, addressing the subject without outward embarrassment. “It’s dreadfully distracting, I know. I just can’t seem to help myself. If it’s not the leg, it’s my hand or fingers. And I make peculiar noises at the most inopportune moments. Children used to call me ‘High-strung’ Hegel. My Aunt from Outside thinks it means I have a devil in me — isn’t that barmy?”

Po Tran she didn’t know as of yet — but “Squashies” was both a charming and appropriate name for the soft candies, which dissolved slowly on her tongue. They tasted of cherries and, as promised, she felt noticeably mellower afterwards. “You’re not a witch, Josie,” she said fervently. “You’re a saint.”

“And you’re a sweetheart.” Josie patted her check, then rubbed away the flour she had transferred to it. “If the storm’s still blowing tonight, what do you say to having a little sleepover in my room? You can read me one of those gruesome stories of yours and I’ll give you all the reassuring cuddles your mama should’ve given you years ago. There’s nothing irrational about being frightened of storms — they’re destructive, violent, and overwhelming. It’d be irrational if they _didn’t_ startle you.”

“They don’t seem to bother _you_.”

“I’m an odd duck. They remind me of one of the best nights of my life.”

“Do tell,” Annamaria encouraged.

“The night I met Lotte’s father,” Josie said with a grin. “A very eventful night.” She arched her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Josie!” The younger woman gasped. “The same night you _met_?”

“It was fate,” the cook said, unrepentant. “I just knew. Don’t scoff — maybe it’ll happen to you someday, too. Passion can spark quite unexpectedly, even between strangers.”

Annamaria returned to her rolling with a hot face. It was easy for someone as earthy as Josie to believe and say that, but at thirty-two, after a decade-long marriage that had been nothing but dull and dreadful, she had reconciled herself to a life without physical passion. She had no intention of ever marrying again after her escape from the stifling institution, and she knew she could find plenty of contentment and pleasure in independence. She would spend her days baking and reading and socializing with interesting people, wearing beautiful dresses and enjoying magical sights. That was more than enough after the unhappiness of New York.

“Thank you, again, for letting me use your ovens,” she said.

“Of course, dear.” Josie poured a bucket of water into the huge cauldron hanging in the fireplace. “Like I said, you’re doing me a favor, taking over the desserts.”

“Let’s just hope everyone likes my recipes.” Annamaria picked up the trays of cooled raspberry tarts. “Here goes. Wish me luck.”

“Luck — though I doubt you’ll need it.”

In the saloon, a chorus of eager voices greeted Annamaria’s taste-test offer, followed by a veritable stampede to the bar. Observing everyone’s obvious enjoyment of her tarts made her beam with pride; this idea of opening a bakery may not be a silly one after all.

“Sugar, I’m gonna need an entire box of these to take back to my room tonight,” Bobbie said, closing his eyes and savoring with an expression of pure bliss. “These are more satisfying than—”

The kitchen door banged open and Josie leaned out. “Little ears are listening,” she said. “I’m not sending the children back to Yancy with a bunch of awkward questions.”

“Children have to learn about it sometime,” countered Bobbie breezily. “There’s nothing shameful about it.”

“Yes and yes — but I think six may yet be a little _too_ young, and we should leave those decisions up to the father—”

“Is this a sex thing?” piped up Link Reynolds, the picture of cherubic innocence on Hermann’s knee, a crumb moustache above his lip. “It’s how babies get made, isn’t it? That’s what Matty told me, when I asked about Mrs. Cornell’s belly. He said a mama and a papa have sex, and that puts the baby in her belly, and then—”

“Lincoln!” gaped 11-year-old Jacob, pushing up the glasses forever in danger of sliding off his long nose. “You don’t talk about things like that in public!”

“Not that sex is a bad thing,” said Hermann quickly. “And if you have any more questions about it, or your body, you can come ask me, _ja_? It’s just that it is usually a private thing. It’s not a subject that is discussed in mixed company. Do you see?”

“Oh. Alright.” Link shrugged and sipped his glass of milk, using both hands.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Bobbie as the amused tittering died away. “But honestly, sweetie. These are delicious. And I usually don’t care for raspberry.”

“I concur,” seconded the doctor. “Tell me, Miss Doherty: do you have any apple strudel recipes?”

“I do! Three, in fact.”

“ _Wunderbar!_ Name your price and put me down for all three. I can never have too much strudel.” He glanced down at the round stomach straining his red suspenders. “Though my trousers may disagree.”

“Your belly’s not as big as Mrs. Cornell’s,” pointed out Link helpfully, patting it gently. “Mr. Cotton, you didn’t take a treat yet. You should. They’re real good.”

“I confess: I’m more partial to savory than sweet,” said the deputy apologetically. When he’d walked into the Pax — soft hair a lush and hazel-highlighted brown, eyes bright, skin rosy with a healthy glow — Annamaria hadn’t recognized him. He was a radically different man from the one she’d been introduced to. “But if you’re planning to offer breads as well as pastries, I’m especially fond of rye.”

“That reminds me: Pa loves shortbread,” said Caleb. “But he hasn’t had it in years. We’re both all thumbs when it comes to baking.”

“The woman who taught me everything I know is Scottish,” Annamaria said brightly. “One of the first things she showed me was shortbread!”

“Then I’ll absolutely need a batch for his birthday next month.”

“And on the subject of birthdays,” said Lotte, “Bedford, yours is right around the corner, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, Miss Lotte. On the 24th.”

“What sort of cake do you want?”

“Chocolate!”

“I bet Miss Annamaria could whip you up the chocolate cake to end all chocolate cakes.”

“Ooh, please, miss!”

“I’d love to. I’ll even put chocolate frosting and shavings on top.”

“That’s a good point: we’ll have to spread the word and set up a birthday chart for you,” Josie suggested. “Have everybody order their cakes and party treats in advance. Pretty soon, you’ll need to hire an assistant, sweetie, to keep up with all the orders.”

“You need any help, miss, I’ll chop whatever needs choppin’ and stir any pots that need boilin’,” offered Old Man Hogan gallantly. The man was ninety-five if he was a day, with liver-spotted hands and a face as wrinkled as a walnut. With his pronounced hunchback, he was barely four feet tall — he reminded Annamaria of the illustrations of gnomes in her childhood fairytale collections. “You can pay me in cookies.”

“If your teacher was Scottish, I bet you have never made churros,” said Luisa. The witch had eaten two full meals before midday, and yet had still found the room for dessert. “I would be happy to share my _abuela_ ’s recipe and show you the best way to fry them.”

Annamaria looked from face to face, awash in a warm wave of camaraderie. Her parents would have turned their noses up at, and their backs on, every person now smiling at her. They would have dismissed them out of hand because of the color of their skin, or their homespun clothes and unrefined manners. And they would have scoffed at her plans without sampling _any_ of her creations.

But her new neighbors — new friends — were eager to encourage and support her. They were doing everything a family was supposed to do.

 _I’m never leaving this town_ , Annamaria thought. _I’m here for good_. _I’m going to put down roots and bake cakes and grow old with magic and laughter and friends._ “Mr. Ruiz?”

“Mmm?” The notary public looked up with a guilty air, having just slipped another tart into his mouth.

“I want to buy a house. Are there any available?”

The man blinked in surprise, then quickly swallowed and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “What precisely are you looking for, Miss Doherty? There’s the apartment above the old chandlers at the end of Main—”

She shook her head. She didn’t want an apartment; didn’t want to live anywhere with staircases. She’d had her fill of going up and down staircases in New York. “I’d like something that’s ground level. One story. With space for a garden, and a good-sized kitchen.”

Eduardo thought for a moment. “I’m afraid we currently don’t have anything that fits that bill within the town limits, miss,” he said regretfully, puncturing the ballooning lightness in her chest. “We could easily build a home that meets your needs on an empty lot, and we could probably start the construction within the next two weeks, but that would take some time to complete.”

“I see,” she said, deflating.

“…There _is_ a cottage, though…”

Annamaria perked up. “Cottage” sounded very promising. She was thoroughly charmed by Jenny’s. “Yes?”

“It’s a fair pace from town,” Eduardo warned. “About two miles. It’s next to Emmett Ingram’s farm, to the east.”

Two miles wasn’t that far on horseback. She could ride that distance easily every morning and evening, to come and bake at the Pax or visit the tea room and do her shopping and visiting.

The more she thought about it, the more intriguing the possibility became. She’d never lived entirely alone before, so far from the noise and bustle of a city, but having that sort of privacy every night was attractive. She could have her fill of society during the day and retreat to a quiet, restful home at night. And she didn’t need a grand space; a cottage would be the perfect size for a single lady. And she’d have the space to try her hand at growing her own ingredients. Chances were good she’d prove to have a black thumb, but she still wanted to try. Mrs. Prouty always said the best food came from ingredients you’d grown yourself.

“As soon as this storm abates, Mr. Ruiz, could you show me this cottage?”

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Doherty. …Could I have another of these scrumptious tarts, please?”


	83. Chapter 83

“My father’s room is currently wasted space.”

Celeste turned from the sink, soapy dish in hand. “Meaning?” she prompted.

George continued to calmly wipe down the kitchen table. “It strikes me as a silly arrangement. You spending money to rent a room at the Pax, walking back and forth every day, when there’s room here for you. All we’d need to do is get a new mattress from Ingram for the empty frame. Clear out the wardrobe and dresser. I’ve been meaning to do that for weeks now.”

“…I like living at the Pax,” Celeste said after a long pause.

“You already spend nearly every waking moment here,” George countered, a peevish note creeping into his voice. _Why does she always have to be obstinate with me?_ “With this overhaul you’ve got planned, you’ll be here late every night anyway. If you took the room, it would spare Ianto the trouble of having to walk you back to the Pax all the time.”

That made a palpable hit — he could tell by the way her shoulders tightened. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about what?” Ianto asked, returning from the washroom.

“I’ve offered her my father’s old bedroom.”

The Welshman picked up the dishtowel and took the lunch plate Celeste held out. “It would be safer, miss,” he said earnestly.

Celeste softened. “I’ll think about it,” she repeated in a far gentler tone.

***

_Sweetheart, do me a favor,_ signed James.

Rachel nodded. _Of course, Dad_.

 _Go have some fun_ , he signed emphatically. _See what Miss Josie’s cooking. Play a game with someone. You don’t need to sit here with me all day_.

 _I’m not bored! We could do another round of charades_ —

_Honey. I see you fighting back yawns. Just because I’m stuck here doesn’t mean you have to be, too. I’ve got a book to occupy me. Go._

With an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, the teen stood from her chair and kissed his forehead. _Alright. But if you need anything—_

_Nova and Doc are keeping a close eye on me. And Rosy or Lotte will be back in a few minutes, I’m sure._

Sure enough: mere moments after his daughter left, a side door that led directly into the kitchen opened. Nova entered with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other.

 _I put extra sugar in it, to counteract the bitterness of the pain relievers_ , the young man signed as James quickly washed two of the pills down.

_Thanks, Nova. That was considerate of you._

_I remember how awful those taste. And I remember how frustrating it felt, being stuck in a bed for days on end._ The boy had had a rough start when he arrived in Hazeldine some seventeen months ago; he’d come far closer to death than James had.

 _You’re becoming quite the healer_ , the farmer signed. _I’m sure your father is proud of you. I know I am_.

The blush reached all the way to Nova’s hairline. _Thank you, sir_. _…Sir, I have something important to ask you. I know this isn’t the best time—_

James lifted a hand to interrupt him. _If it’s important to you, I’m happy to listen_.

_I’m going to ask Rachel to marry me, and I’d really like your blessing._

James regarded him steadily. He’d expected to receive such a request before long, though he’d thought there would be a few more months before it was delivered. He may be deaf, but he wasn’t blind, and he’d known for some time that his daughter and the doctor’s son felt more than friendship for one another.

 _I know I’m only eighteen,_ Nova went on with fumbling fingers. _I know Rachel’s only sixteen, as of next month. I know we’ll have to wait a while before we have a wedding. But I love her, sir, and I want nothing more than to be her husband. I swear to God, I’ll always put her best interests first and do whatever it takes to make her happy._

 _I know you will, Nova_ , James signed. _There’s no need to convince me; you did that a long time ago. You’re an upstanding young man. And I’d be very happy to call you son._ He stretched out his right hand and shook Nova’s firmly. _But I’d like it to be a long engagement_ , he added with a wryly arched eyebrow.

***

“Let’s have a scary story contest,” Leah Ginsberg suggested. “Night’s falling. The storm’s getting even stronger. It’s the perfect setting.”

“Like the night Mary Shelley came up with _Frankenstein_ ,” said Annamaria, settling into the seat beside Leah’s wheelchair. “Who wants to go first?”

“Hold that thought.” Blythe bent to scoop up an unresisting Lincoln. The boy blinked sleepily and clutched his jointed wooden doll, one of Hawley’s many creations. “I think we should put the children to bed before we start anything spooky.”

“Can I stay up, Mrs. Carlyle?” asked Robert. “I’m not tired yet. And ghost stories don’t scare me.”

“They scare me,” said Caleb readily, taking Roland and Bedford’s hands while Jacob took Avonlea’s. “Go ahead and start without us.”

“Did you all have fun today?” Blythe asked as they climbed the stairs. The answer was an indistinct chorus of mumbled agreement and yawns.

“I still wish Miss Celeste was here,” grumbled Avonlea. “Or Mr. Ianto.”

“You’ll see them as soon as the storm lets up,” Blythe said bracingly.

Caleb was quick to shake the lightning jars to life as they entered the room made up for the Reynolds, with a pair of double beds pushed together. The children doffed their clothes and donned their nightshirts and gown while the seamstress set Lincoln on the edge of the bed. “Need help getting undressed, sweetie?”

“I can do it, Mrs. Carlyle,” said Jacob. “That’s one of my jobs.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured, unbuttoning the boy’s shirt. _Poor mites_ , she thought. _They’re so young to be so self-reliant._ “Why don’t you and Mr. Rutledge take your brothers and sister to the lavatory? Everybody needs to brush their teeth and wash their faces before you get under the covers.”

Lincoln sat obediently still and watched her with heavy-lidded eyes as she gently extricated his legs from his trousers and tugged a baggy nightshirt over his head. “Pop!” she said when his head emerged from the collar, tapping the end of his nose lightly. He went cross-eyed with a giggle. “Now, let’s go wash up.”

“You’re nice, Mrs. Carlyle,” the boy murmured, tucking his chin over her shoulder as she carried him to the washroom, passing Caleb and the rest of the Reynolds on their way back. “I like you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sweetie, because I like you, too,” she said, patting his back. “Here’s a little stool to stand on, so you can reach the sink. Which brush is yours?”

“That one.”

She had wet the bristles and was dipping them in the minty powder when Lincoln innocently announced, “I wish you could be my mama always.”

Blythe bit the edge of her lip and swallowed the lump of longing and sadness and fondness that rose in her throat. “That’s a lovely thing to say, sweetheart,” she said with difficulty and a watery smile.

He grinned and took his toothbrush from her, blissfully unaware of the impact of his words.

Five minutes later, she’d tucked him and his doll into bed between Avonlea and Roland. Kissed everyone’s cheeks and dimmed the jars. She left the door opened a crack and followed Caleb to the end of the hall.

“I know Yancy struggles sometimes,” Blythe whispered. “But he’s raising some wonderful children.”

Caleb nodded with a soft smile. “They’re growing into colorful individuals. Jacob informed me quite matter-of-factly that he’s going to own _The Hazeldine Hawk_ someday. Bedford will be the illustrator, of course.”

“Oh, that goes without saying. …Robert’s obviously taken after his father with his love for farming, but the others aren’t hesitant about pursuing their own interests. Matthew’s already distinguishing himself at the smithy. And Roland’s asked me to take him on as an apprentice.”

“I thought he might.”

“He has a good eye for color. And there’s no denying he’s passionate about fashion. You know,” she said, “I was the same age as Roland when Mama taught me how to sew.”

“Sounds like fate to me.”

She smiled at his light tone. At how comfortable it felt to stand here and simply talk. How nice it was to be so close to him in the chilly hallway, the heat of him — redolent of stamps and ink — enveloping her.

It sank in that they were alone, less than a foot of space between them, in a barely lit hall full of empty bedrooms. Caleb must have realized it, too; as she stared his scar paled against his cheek.

Blythe shifted her gaze to his bandaged neck and grasped for social niceties to forestall the sudden awkwardness. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Your neck, I mean.”

“Much better than last night.

“Good. That’s good.”

“…Blythe, about last night—”

“I don’t regret it,” she said in a rush. “Please don’t say it was a mistake.”

“I won’t. Because it wasn’t.” Caleb reached out. Stroked his fingertips along her jaw, the touch sending a subtle shiver through her. Leaned closer slowly, giving her ample time to pull away. When she didn’t, he kissed her in the flickering light of the lantern over their heads, palm against her cheek. So tenderly her heart threatened to stop.

“May I court you, Blythe Carlyle?” he murmured when he drew back, eyes dark and solemn.

“Yes, Caleb,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”


	84. Chapter 84

“…had never missed Sunday service before, and the pastor began to worry that something was wrong. As everyone filed out of the church, he stopped the family’s closest neighbor, Mr. Lawrence, and asked if he’d heard of any problems on the farm.

“‘No, sir,’ said the man. ‘Granted, Joseph’s not a friendly fellow, so we don’t often pass the time of day or call on one another. But this morning, as Polly and I were eating our breakfast, I happened to glance out the window and see smoke rising from the Littles’ chimney. I’ve no idea why they didn’t make it today.’

“On Monday, Celia Little didn’t come to the schoolhouse. Her mother Ruth was absent from the midday quilting circle. And, for the first time in over thirty years, Joseph didn’t stop at the post office to collect his mail.

“So that evening, most of the town gathered at the church and decided to go to the farm. Just to check in on the Littles. To offer their assistance if someone was ill. What else could be keeping the family from town?

“As they strode down the beaten, snowy path to the large house, they expected Joseph or Ruth to come out and meet them. To ask why the entire town was descending upon them at such an hour.

“But no one appeared. Smoke curled from the chimney, just as Mr. Lawrence had noticed the day before, but there was an eerie silence over the Little farm. The mayor himself stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

“Concern became fear. Something was very, very wrong; every man and woman could feel it in their gut, like curdled milk and spoiled beef. Mr. Lawrence took out the key Joseph Little had given him years before and unlocked the door with shaking hands. He stepped inside…”

Annamaria paused, surveying the tense faces gathered around her in the darkened saloon, the circle illuminated by only a handful of candles. Even Luisa, feeding sunflower seeds to the shrike on her shoulder, looked unsettled. Josie was on the very edge of her chair, hands clenched around her knees.

“Well?” demanded the cook impatiently. “What was inside?”

“Fresh wood had been laid in the crackling fireplace. A plate of half-finished, still steaming food sat on the table, beside the day’s paper. Damp boot prints marked the floor from where a man had recently walked in from the snowy fields.

“That last detail struck Mr. Lawrence as very odd. Ruth Little was a fastidious housekeeper. She never would have allowed her husband to track snow through the house like that.

“He looked closer at the wet marks and realized it wasn’t snow that had been tracked across the pale oak floorboards. It was something thicker. Darker. He pressed his fingers to a puddle. They came away red.”

“Blood,” whispered a horrified Leah.

“Mr. Lawrence moved like one in a dream — no, a nightmare. He followed the tracks to the back door. It was unlocked, and he threw it open. Red footprints stained the white snow, stretching from where Mr. Lawrence now stood to the tall, barred door of the Littles’ barn.

“With the mayor at one shoulder, the pastor at the other, he went to the barn with a dreadful ringing in his ears. He knew what they would find inside. Knew it would be horrible. But they still had to see it. Still had to be sure.

“He reached for the cold metal handle—”

**_BANG! BANG! BANG!_ **

Leah and Bobbie screamed, the latter’s voice arching into an operatic key. Eduardo jolted so badly he slipped off his chair and fell against Valentine’s legs with a clatter. Josie and Luisa leapt to their feet as the rifle behind the bar floated into the air, Wint materializing around it in a grey cloud. Luisa drew a knife from a slit in her skirt, static electricity crackling silver across her black hair.

“What on Earth—?” a gasping Annamaria demanded, clutching at her chest while Cotton and Robert Reynolds helped Eduardo off the floor.

“Good Lawd, everybody hold onto yer britches,” said Old Man Hogan with a derisive snort. “It’s just somebody knockin’ at the door.” The elderly farmer unfolded from his chair with a wince for creaky joints and hobbled to the Pax’s entrance, pulling back the lock’s latch and grasping the bronze knob.

“Norbert, wait!” Josie said belatedly, rushing forward, just as Lotte stepped out of her suite with an exclamation of, “What in the _hell_ is going on—”

But the man was already opening the door. The full, furious cacophony of the storm and a whistling gust of cold wind filled the saloon, instantly dousing the candles. A forked tongue of lightning briefly illuminated a tall figure in the doorway, broad-shouldered and crowned with a hat.

“Get inside, stranger,” ordered Old Man Hogan, his reedy voice somehow audible over the rain and thunder. “What sort of a fool are you, walkin’ about in this weather? Ain’t ya got a lick of sense?”

The newcomer stepped over the threshold and the small elderly man — clearly stronger than his wizened, stooped frame suggested — slammed the door shut behind him.

For a moment, there was pitch blackness — then, with a sharp sizzle and blinding flare of white, every lightning jar in the room burst into life. Luisa lowered her hands with a resigned sigh. “Josie, I need another sandwich.”

Annamaria blinked frantically to clear the spots from her vision. As the sparkling fuzziness dissipated, she took stock of the new arrival.

_Tall, dark, and handsome_ was her immediate, if clichéd, impression. The man in the thoroughly soaked black duster coat loomed more than two feet over the hunched Norbert Hogan. On one impressive shoulder he’d draped a pair of large saddlebags. The tanned face beneath the dripping black Stetson was hard — his jaw was sharply square, his broad brow was furrowed above eyes so dark a brown they were almost as black as his beard, and his thick nose had been broken and unevenly reset more than once. He glowered as he surveyed the room.

And yet, he had a peculiar magnetism to him. Something about him attracted rather than repelled. This was a capable, powerful, strong man with an intimidating set of features — but, somehow, he wasn’t entirely unapproachable.

“Beg pardon for intruding at such an hour,” the man said in a quiet rumble, doffing his hat and revealing thick, black, wavy hair and fat-lobed ears. “But I’ve been walking all day. I was forced to put down my horse this morning, after it broke its leg. And this ain’t a night to camp rough.”

“You ain’t lyin’, mister,” said Old Man Hogan. “And you’ve got a cat’s luck, if you’ve been out in this storm all day. That lightnin’ out there aims at anythin’ that moves.”

“I had some close calls,” the man admitted with a crooked smile. “I was mighty grateful when I saw this hotel.”

“I’m Lotte Barton,” the Pax’s proprietress announced, striding forward with a hand outstretched, the businesswoman mantle settling over her shoulders. “This is my place.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barton,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “John Solomon, though most folks call me Jack. Blackjack, if you’re a card dealer.” His smile widened, instantly softening and brightening his face. “You’ve got a pretty place here. Big, for a town this size.”

“A lot of folks pass through Hazeldine,” she said. “Are you? Passing through?”

Jack Solomon’s hand slipped from hers. “Not rightly sure yet, ma’am. I’m a bit of a wanderer, but I sometimes linger a spell, if I find I like a place.”

“Then you’re welcome to rent a room here until you make up your mind.”

“Care for a sandwich and some stew, Mr. Solomon?” asked Josie. “I’m Josie Barton, Lotte’s mother and the cook here.”

“Ma’am, that would be just wonderful, thank you. I’m so hungry, I could eat my poor horse — no cooking necessary.” Jack flashed a toothy smile and set his saddlebags down beside the bar, unbuttoning his coat to reveal black trousers, a black shirt, a black waistcoat, and a pair of bone-handled six-shooters holstered at his hips.

“Luisa,” Annamaria whispered as the man settled onto a stool and ordered a shot of tequila from Lotte. “Your jars.”

“What about them?” the weather witch asked, fighting back a yawn.

“You lit them up in front of him! I thought everyone was careful to keep the magic a secret from newcomers?”

Luisa met her eyes. “I don’t know that man from Adam,” she said softly. “But I know this: he is not a normal human.”

Annamaria blinked, taken aback. “Why do you say that?”

“Because a human would not have survived unprotected from my storm. Hogan was right: he should be dead by lightning strike. And yet…” she glanced at the man in black sitting at the bar, politely shaking hands as the others approached to introduce themselves. “Whatever Jack Solomon is, he already knows about magic.”


	85. PART EIGHTEEN - BRUTES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Ming-Wa Zhou (Justin Min) - a farrier.  
> * Ellen Hegel (Luca Hollestelle) - a textile witch.  
> * Beverly Layton (Tessa Thompson) - a farmer's wife.  
> * Cricket Katz (Ezra Miller) - the record's hall clerk.

**P A R T E I G H T E E N — B R U T E S**

Lifting her black and white checkered skirt, Annamaria sprang lightly over a large puddle and stepped under the hand-painted sign that read **ZHOU FARRIERS AND STABLING** _._ Goldenrod light streamed between the stalls of the large stable in deceptively solid beams. The space smelled strongly of horse and fresh hay.

After three solid days and nights of Biblical downpouring, Annamaria was _more_ than ready for a bracing ride. In the storm’s wake, the air was cooler, the sun gentler as it filtered through clouds as white and fluffy as sheep. It would rain again — and soon — but they had a few days of respite.

Luisa’s storm acted as a magnet, the witch had explained, attracting rain-heavy clouds from miles and miles away, saturating the sky around Hazeldine with the necessary elements to temporarily reshape the area’s weather systems. For the next month or two, they would get all the rain the farmers — and Deputy Webster — so desperately needed. The stunted crops in the fields would bounce back quickly, and the fall harvest should be a satisfactory one.

For now, there was a clean tang to the air that suited Annamaria’s buoyant mood. Mr. Ruiz would be meeting her here shortly, they’d arrange to borrow a pair of mounts, and then they’d be riding to her potential new cottage.

Sauntering down the recently swept central aisle, Annamaria glanced into each stall she passed. She recognized Luisa and Rosanna’s mares, calmly tearing at piles of hay. A tan gelding dozed with his chin resting on the top of his door, tail lazily swishing behind him, and a foal nursed eagerly while its mother lapped from a water trough.

Halfway through the large, long space, Annamaria stopped short at a sharp tug on her puffed sleeve. She turned, expecting to see a farrier or stableboy, and instead met a giant pair of brown eyes.

“Oh, hello there,” she told the huge black stallion that had stretched his neck out to grip her sleeve between flat, yellowed teeth. “You’re a big boy.” Quite the understatement; with his height and girth, this horse could’ve carried medieval knights into jousting battle. “If I give you a scratch, will you let my sleeve go?”

Tall ears flickered. He released her and whickered, readily pushing his nose into her hands.

“That’s Brutus, miss.” A young Chinese man strolled up, a canvas apron over his black trousers and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up past his elbows to display well-muscled forearms. “And I’m Ming-Wa Zhou. You must be Miss Doherty.”

“Please, call me Annamaria.” She stroked the white starburst between the stallion’s soulful eyes, the tiny braid in his fetlock studded with charms — Nellie’s doing, she was sure, meant to protect the animal from the town’s snakes and other dangers. “He’s a handsome fellow.”

“He is,” Ming-Wa agreed, brushing a hand through his short black hair before shoving both into his pockets. “And a cantankerous cuss, usually. But he’s taken a shine to you.”

“I love horses. I rode a lot in New York, in Central Park. But when my last horse, Primrose, died, my husband refused to let me purchase another.” Her mouth twisted into an angry moue at the memory. Abel had said it was an unnecessary expense, but she’d known better. They had begun to argue at that point; she’d dared to openly defy him in front of others, asserting her own wishes rather than immediately capitulating to his, and he saw it as a way to punish her. She couldn’t buy anything without his permission, not even a new hat, as all of their money — even the dowry she brought into the marriage — was legally his.

Thank God for her divorce lawyer. She should send Mr. Rockwell another fruit basket.

“My grandfather likes to say the horse chooses the rider. I’ve never seen Brutus so affectionate before.”

“He’s for sale?”

“Mm-hmm. Jeb Dunne found him a couple months ago, wandering the edge of Mr. San Toro’s range, wearing a saddle but sans a rider. We think he belonged to a desperado who had some bad luck during a train job or coach robbery. He’s obviously from good stock, but all that pure blood means he’s high-strung and finicky, too. He’s warmed to me a little over the weeks — he lets me curry him now without biting me black and blue.”

“Are you a prima donna?” Annamaria asked the horse, scratching his whiskery chin until his eyes glazed. “Or are you a sweetheart? Hmm? Are you a good boy?” She glanced at the farrier with a rueful smile. “He’s an absolutely gorgeous creature, but I think he may be a little too giant-sized for me.”

Ming-Wa leaned a shoulder against a support beam. “At least take him out for a ride. See if he suits.”

“Good morning!” called Eduardo Ruiz as he entered the stables, puffing for breath. “Sorry if I kept you waiting — one of Ruby Latimer’s kittens got itself stuck in their kitchen wall the first night of the storm, and they needed me to show them where to saw to get it out. Poor girl was hysterical after two days of worrying. Looks like you weathered everything alright, Ming-Wa.”

“There’s a small leak in the ceiling of Grandfather’s bedroom now, but we’ll get that patched today. We live upstairs,” the man added for Annamaria’s benefit. “Well? Can I saddle Brutus for you?”

“Not the Terror,” Eduardo said, surprised.

The so-called “Terror” was now sniffing the thick braid resting on Annamaria’s shoulder, lipping at it gently. “No, that’s not hay for you to eat,” she chided, sweeping it behind her. “Oh, alright, yes. Let’s see if I can stay on such a beast. I’ll need a ladder every time I want to mount him.”

But when Ming-Wa had tightened the saddle girth and stepped back to offer Annamaria a helping hand, the stallion shocked them all by tamely kneeling down.

“I’ll be damned,” the farrier murmured.

“I’ve seen trained circus elephants do that, but never a horse,” added a wide-eyed Eduardo.

Annamaria arranged herself side-saddle and gripped the pommel firmly. The moment she was settled, the horse smoothly straightened. “Good boy,” she murmured, patting his broad neck. “Well, Mr. Zhou, it looks like your grandfather is right about horses. Who am I to deny such a sweetheart?”


	86. Chapter 86

As they rode past Emmett Ingram’s farm, Annamaria examined it with interest. She hadn’t met the man yet, but when Josie and Rosanna heard she may be buying the cottage next door to his place, both women had grinned widely.

“Em is a darling man,” said Josie. “The best listener I’ve ever met. Talking to him just makes you feel good.”

“He’s a real charmer, too,” Rosanna added. “Friendly and earnest as a summer day is long. He’ll be a good neighbor; eager to help with anything you might need.”

His farm certainly looked inviting, with its field of wildflowers and huge vegetable garden. The red wood house, perched on a slight hill and bordering a copse of trees, seemed to smile at her as they cantered past, with its front two windows and door thrown open to catch the freshening breeze.

“I know this feels remote, so far from town,” Eduardo called. “But don’t worry. Mr. Ingram is just across the field, and he’s a very dependable, trustworthy man. You can turn to him for anything.”

_I’m looking forward to meeting this saint_ , Annamaria thought with a private laugh, before turning her attention to the stone cottage just before them.

It had clearly stood empty for some time — the flaking whitewash needed to be refreshed, a few of the peaked roof’s black shingles would have to be replaced, and the green vines covering the right half of the house had spread to swallow one of the windows. The once cultivated front flower garden was a tangled, wild mess, full of dandelions and clover. As they dismounted their horses, three hares sprinted through the undergrowth, half-chewed greenery in their cheeks.

But Annamaria was instantly in love. She knotted Brutus’ reins on one of the three splintering hitching posts and hurried down the slate stone path to examine the carvings on the black door. More hares, dancing in a circle on their long hind legs around a maypole, wearing crowns of flowers. Even the copper doorknob, green with oxidation, was embossed with a hare, this one curled into a tight ball as if sleeping.

“Did a midwife live here?” she asked as Eduardo joined her, unhooking a keyring from his belt.

He blinked. “Why would you assume that?”

She pointed at the carving. “Hares and rabbits have been symbols of fertility for hundreds of years. There are a lot of myths about them. There’s a Japanese story about a rabbit in the moon, too, and the moon has always been associated with…” She hesitated with a sudden blush, belatedly remembering she was talking to a man, and an unmarried one at that. “Uh, feminine things,” she finished lamely.

“Huh,” said Eduardo, looking down to find the right key. “I never knew that. But no, the Easts have been Hazeldine’s midwives for a couple generations. This was the Collins farm.”

“Collins? Deputy Collins?”

“Yes.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Val grew up here. He’d already taken the job as deputy and moved into town when his parents left, so it’s been sitting empty for several years.”

“Where did his parents go?”

“We don’t know,” Eduardo said somberly. “Val does, but he’s never shared the where or why with the rest of town. Whatever the situation was, it was serious. Fergus and Bridget loved this place. Loved Hazeldine. Everybody was shocked when they went.”

Annamaria followed him inside, her giddy delight tempered by his solemn expression.

Until she saw the furniture. “Good Lord!” she gasped, taking in a beautiful oak table and chairs, the legs intricately carved, and a tall hutch filled with china. Copper pots and pans hung from a large rack over a squat bronze and steel stove. That door there must lead to a pantry, and the smaller square hatch belonged to an oven built directly into the stone wall. The kitchen cabinets and drawers had all been painted with lush, colorful floral motifs and gamboling hares.

Sitting in front of the massive fireplace that divided the living space from a back bedroom were two cedar rockers and a plush armchair. The walls were covered with shelves that held books, decorative items, and vases of dried flowers.

Moving like a sleepwalker, Annamaria slipped through the doorway into the main bedroom and found a large recessed bed built into the floor and heaped high with pillows and blankets; it would be like snuggling into a burrow every night. Between the two large windows hung an intricate tapestry depicting a magical, courtly gathering in a woodland grotto: slender men and women in royal attire, unicorns and griffons, animals walking on their hind feet and drinking from goblets, holding out trays of food… At the very top, wings outstretched and curving as if to embrace the entire gathering below, was a golden dragon with ruby red eyes.

Annamaria reached up slowly to touch one of the wings; the thread was cold and hard beneath her fingertips. _Actual gold?_ she wondered, breathless. It was an unexpected piece of art to find in such a small, outwardly humble home. 

“The furnishings are included,” Eduardo said behind her. He reached out and ran his forefinger along the fireplace mantle; it came away gray with dust. “Everything will need a good cleaning, though. And the window in the second bedroom has to be replaced. Not sure when the glass broke, but it wasn’t that long ago — probably during the storm, judging by the fresh pool of water on the floor.”

“Doesn’t Mr. Collins want to hold onto any of this?” she asked, brow furrowed.

“Val’s never been sentimental about objects. He lives pretty spartanly; he and Webster don’t keep much in their room at the lock-up.”

“Even so.” She looked back at the tapestry. “There must be _something_ here he wants to keep. I’d like to speak to him before I sign any paperwork.”

“Then you’ll take it?”

“Is there anything else I should see?”

“There’s a small washroom through here—” he opened a door she hadn’t noticed, revealing a space barely large enough for a toilet, sink, and narrow shower. “Bridget had Hideo Kaneshiro install everything a couple months before they left. Said she was tired of running to the outhouse in the winter. You’ll want him to come out and check it all over before you use any of it. There’s running water in the kitchen, too, but if you have any issues with it, there’s also a well out back, past the dairy.”

“There’s a dairy?” She wasn’t quite ready to tackle the animal husbandry needed to make her own cheese, cream, and butter, but perhaps someday…

“A small one. Bridget kept a cow and a goat. She made the most wonderful cheeses,” he added wistfully. “Oh, and you said you wanted space for a garden?” He motioned for her to follow him and led her outside and to the right.

It was dotted with spiky weeds and wildflowers, but the plowed rows of a once-tilled field were still visible. “Fergus grew corn here. It’s lain fallow for a long time, which, according to the farmers, is a good thing. Whatever you plant here should thrive.”

Annamaria looked back at the vine-covered cottage. It was lovely and welcoming and had thoroughly charmed her.

But was she ready for its challenges? She’d never lived without servants; she’d never scrubbed a floor before, never dug a hole. Could she handle all of the work it took to be self-sufficient?

Abel’s smug face popped into her thoughts. She could almost hear his dismissive scoff. “You’re a pretty rose, my dear,” he’d said once. “And roses must be sheltered and cultivated carefully — they’re high-maintenance flowers, prone to wilting at the first inconvenience.”

_To hell with you and your condescension, Abel_ , she thought with a surge of anger. Maybe she _was_ a rose. But roses didn’t just have soft petals; they had thorns, too. And if a wild rose could thrive in a ditch, she could thrive anywhere, too.

“I’ll take it, Mr. Ruiz.”


	87. Chapter 87

Yu Jie poured Greer a second cup of her Number Twelve brew, smiling serenely at the rosy-cheeked blacksmith. “You need to buy a bottle of Jenny’s Pink Pills,” she said, “if you are going to keep on like this.”

“I know, I know,” Greer muttered, stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea and waiting for it to cool. “I just don’t want it to be open knowledge yet.”

The herbalist quirked up one delicate eyebrow. “You think Jenny will tell everyone?”

“No. I know she’ll hold her tongue if I ask her to. But if I start talking about it with her, I’ll want to tell other people, too, and sooner rather than later Yvonne will hear, and then…”

“Yvonne has been different,” Yu Jie said. “Since that night.”

“Really? How?” Greer sipped gingerly, testing the temperature. “She still seems like a whirling dervish to me.”

“Not with her energy, nor her hunger for newspaper stories. But she is not prying into personal lives the way she used to. She has not tried to play matchmaker at all. Everyone saw the way Mr. Alvarez and Annamaria were laughing together at the solstice party, yet she hardly seemed to notice it.”

“Well, maybe she knows something there that we don’t,” Greer said astutely. “Maybe her brother’s inclinations don’t include women.”

Yu Jie paused to mull that over. There could be some truth in that. It was often difficult for her to gauge others’ sexual and romantic attractions, feeling neither herself. And she didn’t know Mr. Alvarez that well, anyway. “…Even so, she has abandoned her once unrelenting quest to marry Jenny off. And she has hardly commented on the way things are developing between Blythe and Caleb Rutledge.”

Greer grinned. “It’s so nice to see them both smiling so much. Dancing and joining in the revelries.”

The door swung open with a jangling of bells. Ellen Hegel and her daughters, Prudence and Veronica, entered, filling the tea room with ginger curls and approximately five thousand freckles.

“Good morning!” Miss Hegel called, hurrying over to the front counter as the girls settled at their usual table. “I know the rain was needed, but, Lord, am I glad that storm’s over. And that the girls will be back at school tomorrow,” she added in an undertone, setting a basket on the counter, opening the lid, and tilting it so they could admire its contents. “What colors do you want your sweaters to be this year? I finished dyeing a new lot in this lovely lilac shade that I thought would be heavenly on you, Yu Jie,” she pointed at the balled wool yarn.

“Very pretty. That would be wonderful, thank you.”

“And Greer, do you want another in this red, or maybe the sage green?”

“How about this sapphire blue?” the blacksmith suggested, thinking of how much Bram had liked her in that color.

“Ooh, good choice.” Ellen whipped out a pair of wooden knitting needles and began casting on the blue yarn. The textile witch made her sweaters, mittens, and scarves year-round in order to meet the popular demand every fall. “So. What’s this I hear about a handsome newcomer who dramatically appeared out of the storm?”

“That’s news to me,” Greer said in surprise while Yu Jie called back into the kitchen for her sister to bring the girls their favorite blackberry tea and biscuits. “But then I walked straight here from the smithy. I spent the whole storm making lucky horseshoes and new plow blades.”

Yu Jie glanced down at her cup meaningfully and Greer coughed with a spurt of embarrassment. Well, not the _whole_ storm…

“Old Man Hogan was hobbling home just as the girls and I were leaving,” said Ellen with relish, needles clacking furiously. The Hegels’ house butted up to one side of the farmer’s vast garden off of Queen Street. “He said the man walked all the way from Grandfather after his horse was lamed. _In that storm_.” She tipped her head for emphasis, curls spilling over her shoulder. “And that his name is Blackjack Solomon and he’s the sharpest cardsharp Norbert’s ever seen. Even better than Seung Bae.”

“Seung hates it when people call him a cardsharp,” said Greer. “Says it implies he cheats. He’s a _gambler_.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Ellen snorted, starting a third row of stitches.

“How do you know this Mr. Solomon is handsome?” Yu Jie asked curiously.

“Yeah,” added Greer. “I highly doubt Norbert Hogan would share such a detail.”

“A cardsharp who calls himself Blackjack? He has to be easy on the eyes.”

It was Greer’s turn to snort. “Already planning on seducing him, huh?”

“Maybe,” was the blithe reply. “If he’s passing through.”

_She’s such an odd duck_ , Greer mused privately as Yi Ze slipped past them with a tray and was enthusiastically greeted by the Hegel sisters. She glanced over her shoulder at the girls, aged thirteen and seven, the spitting image of their mother — who didn’t look nearly old enough to have such grown children — with their willowy figures, brown eyes, red-orange curls, and milky skin stamped with dark freckles.

Whoever their fathers were, only Ellen knew — or perhaps she didn’t — but it was widely accepted that they had been travelers who had stopped in town for a short spell before moving on. The woman had a peculiar aversion to romancing any locals, yet readily fell into bed with nomadic strangers she hardly knew. Greer was no prude, but she knew she personally could never do such a thing; she found the habit stranger than Ellen’s constant fidgeting and the curious clicking noises she frequently made with her tongue.

“Anyway, we’re lunching at the Pax and I’ll see what else I can dig up about him. How did everyone’s crafting go while we were storm-bound?”

“I never want to look at another horseshoe for as long as I live,” Greer said deadpan.

“Good thing you’ve got an apprentice now. You can make him do all the frustrating gruntwork.”

“I like the boy too much to torture him like that.”

“How about you, Yu Jie?”

“I mixed a few new blends. But my work hardly compares to yours,” she said modestly. “There is no magic involved with my tea. Just a knowledge of herbs and their effect on the body.”

“That’s plenty magical!” insisted Ellen. “ _I_ could never do what you do— Yes, Ronnie?” she turned her attention to her eldest, standing awkwardly at her shoulder with a pinched expression. Veronica had reached that gangly stage between child and woman when her limbs were too long to be fully under her control.

“I meant to ask for a pot of the Number Eight, Mama,” she whispered bashfully, referring to the Jade and Pearl’s remedy for menstrual cramps.

“Oh, precious, I’m sorry, why didn’t you tell me?” Ellen set aside her knitting and gently tucked back the curl that had slipped from Veronica’s black hair ribbon. “If you’d like to go home for a lie-down, I’ll warm up a nice lavender pad for your tummy.”

“I will bring you out a cup right away, extra strong,” assured Yu Jie, hurrying back through the beaded curtain.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” said Greer sympathetically. “You know what works for me? Exercise. I go on a long run. My legs sometimes hurt afterwards, but I’d rather feel that pain than the other.”

“Running may not be the best idea,” Ellen said. “She gets tired easily, and we wouldn’t want to risk a faint.”

“Beef broth helps with that,” suggested Yi Ze from the kitchen. “You need to build up your iron this time of the month.”

Veronica clearly wanted to sink into the floor with mortification. Greer patted her arm comfortingly. “No need to be embarrassed. There’s nothing shameful about your cycle. It’s just a part of nature. A cruel, unfair, disgusting, extremely unpleasant part of nature.”

The girl smiled at that. “I hate it,” she said with feeling, and the other women all nodded in sage agreement.

“Mama, can I go get a lolly at the store?” called the younger Hegel from her tall chair, swinging her feet above the floor and chewing her third sugared biscuit.

“Not right now, Prue. You’ve had enough sweets this morning.”

The door burst open again as Yu Jie gave Veronica her cup. “Mr. Rutledge just handed me a letter with the best of news,” Jessika Dupree announced as she marched in, an envelope in her hand and her grown daughter, Beverly Layton, on her heels. Jessika looked like a snow queen today, in a white and silver gown that sparkled against her dark skin and complimented her crown of white dreadlocks, while Beverly was the picture of a humble farmer’s wife in a blue and red checkered cotton dress, her black dreadlocks bound back with a thick ribbon knotted at the base of her brown neck. “Zane’s coming home! He’ll be back by the end of the month.”

The sharp clatter of something dropping in the kitchen had Greer craning her head to peer through the curtain, but from her angle she could see nothing. “Yi Ze?” she called out. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, fine,” the younger woman shot back.

“Words can’t express how relieved I am,” Jessika went on. “Doubt I’ve slept a solid night all year, for worrying about him.”

“Can’t help but notice he wrote to you, not me,” Beverly said peevishly.

“Because he knew you’d be the first person I told, _ma coeur_.”

“I _am_ his twin.”

“He’s just being thrifty.”

“Huh. He’s _never_ written me.”

“Bevvie, you know your brother isn’t much of a letter writer.”

“That’s wonderful news, Mrs. Dupree,” Greer said before the familial argument could build further steam. “It’ll be nice to see him again.”

“Yes, everybody loves Zane,” Beverly said dourly. “He’s the life of the party. Such fun. Always a laugh.”

Ellen and Yu Jie exchanged covert glances. When it came to the Dupree twins, one had got all of the light and the other all of the dark. Perhaps Beverly wouldn’t always be in such a bad mood if she took a lead from her jovial, carefree brother and learned to live in the moment once in a while.

She would certainly be prettier with a genuine smile rather than her constant scowl, too; she’d inherited her mother’s strong bone structure, smooth brown skin, dark eyes, and regal profile. This meant she was beautiful, but her standoffish temper discouraged admiration.

“Yes, this is a huge burden off of my shoulders,” Jessika continued, sinking into a chair and adjusting her voluminous skirt around her legs. “Luther and I both tried our best to dissuade him from his ‘Grand Tour’ — it’s so dangerous Outside for a mixed-race man, especially one who’s free with his charms and so plainspoken — but he refused to be swayed.”

“He always knows best,” Beverly muttered.

“He said to me, ‘ _Mere_ , I’ll be careful, but there’s just too much out there _not_ to see it all.’” Jessika went on as if she hadn’t heard her daughter. Greer suspected she did that often, to keep any modicum of peace. “He wasn’t satisfied with books and pictures. He wanted to _be_ there. To see and smell and taste and touch it.”

“Especially touch,” said Beverly with a derisive snort.

“I wonder where all he’s been,” mused Ellen. Like Greer, she’d never ventured beyond Hazeldine. “It’ll be exciting, hearing all of his stories. Wonder if he’s bringing back many souvenirs?”

“I’ve no doubt of that. He’s always been something of a magpie. Remember all of your little collections, Bevvie? The stones and bones and pretty leaves you two would collect and keep in a ‘treasure chest’?” Jessika’s eyes sparkled.

“I remember opening the box and finding it full of grubs,” Beverly said, sitting across from her mother at the table. “They’d hatched out of the acorns. It was disgusting. Yu Jie, I’ll have the Number Two, please.”

“The Number Nine would be better,” Ellen whispered to the herbalist, who shook her head even as she tried to repress a smile. Beverly Layton and her incessant negativity could be exhausting, but she wasn’t about to knock her out with a sleeping draught.

She stepped through the curtain and turned to the china cabinet for the daisy service — Jessika and Beverly preferred sturdy handled cups — only to find her sister leaning against the wall in the corner. “ _Mei-mei_?” she asked, reaching out for her shoulder.

“Just a headache,” Yi Ze said quickly, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “I didn’t eat breakfast. Do you mind if I go to the Pax and have Josie make me something?”

“Of course. I can manage.”

Grabbing her silk drawstring purse from its hook on the wall, Yi Ze hurried out the back door and into the dim shadows of the alley behind the tea room.

Yu Jie paused, unsettled by her sister’s obvious lie, perhaps the first she’d ever told her. Yi Ze had always confided in her before; for years now they’d had only each other, and their bond had always been a source of strength and solace to them both. That she was unwilling to share whatever was troubling her now troubled Yu Jie deeply.

But, she reminded herself stolidly, there was a significant gap between their ages. And she had assumed a maternal role when Yi Ze was still a girl. There were sure to be things she felt more comfortable discussing with a friend than with a motherly sister. And she was an adult now; she had a right to her privacy. She was old enough to make decisions without any interference or input from her.

Sighing heavily, Yu Jie tried to focus on her work.


	88. Chapter 88

“…struck his weathervane four times,” Yvonne was telling Celeste and Ianto at Godfrey’s Goods. “Hard to believe the whole place didn’t burn—”

“Vonnie, I need to speak with you,” Yi Ze interrupted sharply, grabbing hold of her hand and practically dragging her out of the store.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” she demanded, face paling, as they slipped down the alley.

“Zane’s coming back.”

“Oh!” Yvonne doubled over with relief. Squeezed Yi Ze’s arms with a shaky laugh. “Don’t scare me like that, Zizi! I thought you’d figured something out about the poisoner, or that something had happened to your sister—” She stopped short at the sight of her friend’s pained expression. “Why is Zane coming back a bad thing?”

“You know what happened before he left.”

“Yes, but if you’re worried he’s going to push his suit on you again, don’t be. He’s not the type of man to try to turn a no into a yes. He’ll respect your decision and leave you alone.”

Yi Ze sat sharply on a crate, hands clasped in her lap, the picture of dismay.

“Wait. Are you saying you _don’t_ want that?” Yvonne demanded in confusion. “When you told me you’d turned him down, you sounded so matter-of-fact about it. You implied it was an easy decision to make — that you didn’t reciprocate anything.”

“I lied. To you. To him. To myself, even,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands.

Yvonne didn’t know which shocked her more: Yi Ze’s confession or that she’d kept such a huge secret from her. She sat beside her on the crate and waited as patiently as she could.

“My sister doesn’t like him.”

It wasn’t the explanation Yvonne had expected; save for Emmett Ingram and Hildy, she couldn’t think of anyone in Hazeldine more universally beloved than Zane Dupree. He was practically the human embodiment of sunshine, and she grasped for a single reason to dislike him. “…Because he worked at the Pink?” Yu Jie had never struck her as a disapproving prude, though she’d long suspected they were alike in their lack of interest in sex.

“Because he reminds her of our father. He was charming and jovial, too. With everybody but us, anyway. He flirted with strangers even when Mother was still alive. Loved to drink and play games and gamble. That’s why we ran away, in the end; Yu Jie told me he made a dangerous wager that put us at risk, so we had to get away before it was too late. When Zane started coming to the tea room to see me, I could tell it bothered her. I made the connection, and I began to wonder if she was right…”

“But Zane Dupree isn’t your father,” Yvonne pointed out firmly. “Not only perish the thought — douse it in kerosene and burn it to ash. And not every outgoing, cheerful, fun-loving man is a cur in disguise. You can’t assume the worst of him just because your father was a horrible excuse of a person.”

“I know that. I do. But I also know Yu Jie would disapprove of us being together. It would hurt her to see me with a man so like Father; she’d worry constantly that I was repeating Mother’s mistake.”

And Yi Ze would never do anything that would hurt her sister. She loved her too much.

But what if sparing Yu Jie from pain meant _she_ would suffer? That wasn’t a fair trade-off, either.

“Zizi, you obviously still have feelings for him. If him being gone a year hasn’t put paid to them, they’re not going to disappear now.”

“Maybe _he_ doesn’t feel the same,” she said. “Maybe he fell in love with someone Outside.”

“If that were the case, would he be coming home? Or, wouldn’t he have mentioned that he was bringing someone back with him?”

“That’s true, I suppose…”

Yvonne looked intently at her friend; she didn’t have the queenly bearing and elegance of her older sister — Yvonne would readily acknowledge that — but she was still a very pretty woman. Her beauty was less intimidating, more approachable; there was something about Yi Ze’s face that was inherently friendly. A warm brightness to her eyes and crooked smile.

When Yi Ze had first told Yvonne that Zane Dupree had proposed to her, she had been stunned. Shocked that she’d missed such a development between them; surprised that the younger Mr. Dupree had been drawn to her friend in the first place. She was physically lovely, yes, but also painfully reserved, especially around men. Alone with her, Yi Ze could be open and talkative, but around everyone else she was quiet and shy. Happy to serve customers, but even happier to spend her time in the kitchen preparing orders while her sister was the voice of the tea room. That someone as outgoing and exuberant as Zane had been pulled toward the cautious Yi Ze… It felt like a conflicting match of personalities.

But then everyone — including herself — often said opposites attracted. And Yvonne’s estimation of the man’s quality had risen after she knew he cared for her closest friend; Zane had substance, not just shallow charm, if he could see past Yi Ze’s reticence and love the fine woman beneath.

“Do you think you’d be happy with him?” Yvonne asked finally.

“Yes,” was the whispered reply.

“Don’t you think your sister wants you to be happy?”

A wordless nod.

Yvonne hesitated, knowing the next question was a delicate one. “Did it bother _you_? That he was in such high demand at the Tickled Pink? That he asked for your hand while he was still working there?”

Yi Ze shook her head immediately. “I’m not _exactly_ like you, Vonnie,” she said. “Sometimes I feel passion. A hunger. I have for him, anyway. But I know I’d never fully match his desires, so, in a strange way, his working at the Pink was almost a… relief? I knew he’d have an outlet. A way for him to be satisfied on that count. And knowing how happy he was working there, how happy he made others, I could never be ashamed or disapproving of that.” She plucked at an embroidered cloud on the front of her pink silk cheongsam dress. “I know that sounds peculiar. I know I should be angry, upset, at the thought of a husband in bed with other people. But—”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s peculiar. What matters is what works for _you_ , what makes _you_ happy. So long as everyone is honest and in agreement, it doesn’t matter how you choose to live. Or what other people may think. Because it’s _your_ life, and you’re the one living it, not everyone else.”

Yvonne reached over and took her hand firmly in hers. “And, on that count: you’re twenty-five years old, Zizi. You’re allowed to live however you want, _with_ whoever you want. You can’t force yourself into an unhappy, painful shape that doesn’t suit just to please someone else, even if that someone is your sister. I know you love her, just as much as she loves you, but you also have to be your own person.

“Maybe she _will_ be displeased if you choose Zane; but that won’t last forever. In time, she’ll see what you see, realize he’s a good man, and stop worrying. Neither of you should let the past keep you from present happiness.”

“You’re right,” Yi Ze said finally, squeezing her hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, when you see Zane again, you need to be honest with him. Sit down and have a long talk. Don’t put it off — that won’t help either of you. Just explain that you’ve had plenty of time to think and you’ve changed your mind. Or, rather, that you were letting fear talk when you told him no the first time. If he’s truly worthy of you, he’ll make an effort to understand.”

Yi Ze leaned close and kissed her cheek. “That’s good advice.”

“I’m full of good advice!” Yvonne said loudly, standing and spreading her arms wide. “Always have been! This town would have less trouble if everyone just heeded it!”


	89. Chapter 89

It was the lunch hour when Annamaria and Eduardo rode back into town, passing the large delivery wagon and its silent, sombrero-wearing driver parked outside Godfrey’s Goods. They both waved and hallooed at Ianto, Celeste, and George, busy unloading crates and canvas-wrapped items from the back.

How the driver had known to arrive today, mere hours after the storm ended and it was once again safe to enter Hazeldine, Annamaria didn’t know, but she suspected it must be mystical. Perhaps whoever was under that obscuring hat and bulky, tattered coat was more than human.

Luisa’s words about Jack Solomon came back to her: _He is not a normal human_. She’d learned during her first conversation with Yu Jie that she couldn’t openly ask her new neighbors what they were; Hazeldine didn’t hold to most of the societal rules the rest of the world enforced so zealously, but _that_ was one of the few things considered truly gauche.

Still, her curiosity itched painfully when it came to Mr. Solomon, who was a little rough but had been nothing but civil throughout the storm, even as he won every card game and drank all of the Pax’s tequila. Annamaria had watched him carefully in between bouts of baking, searching for any hint of unusual behavior or odd habits. All she’d noticed was he was exceptionally good at holding his liquor and had very sharp ears — oh, and that the closer his proximity, the more the hairs along her neck and arms stood up. Her body seemed to sense something she couldn’t see, but whether it was warning her of supernatural danger or just reacting to the presence of a handsome, very masculine man, she couldn’t be sure.

At the stables, Annamaria handed Brutus’ reins to Ming-Wa and promised Eduardo she’d stop by his office after lunch to sign the paperwork for the Collins farm — so long as her next stop went well, anyway…

As she approached the squat, square jail that stood apart from the two long rows of businesses bordering Main, situated where the street curved slightly like the tail of a y before it continued on in the direction of the Rutledge Post Office, the Gillenwater ranch, and Grandfather, Annamaria swallowed an unexpected lump of anxiety.

She’d never set foot inside a jail before. And even though she’d done nothing wrong — was only stopping there for a word with a deputy that had nothing to do with crime or mischief — the mere nature of the place sent a frisson of alarm through her. By its very nature, it wasn’t the sort of place a well-bred young woman frequented.

Annamaria wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Manacled chains screwed into the walls? A board covered in Wanted posters depicting grim-faced, scarred men? A gun rack filled with rifles?

What she found was a large front room that contained a long desk, four sturdy wooden chairs, and a tall wooden cabinet with carved, bulldog-like bowlegs. A calendar marked with red X’s took up a goodly portion of one wall. The two front windows and main door had been thrown open, filling the lemon polish-scented space with soft sunlight and fresh air. “Hello?” she called out hesitantly in the doorway.

“Come on back,” called a cheerful male voice from the next room. Annamaria followed it and found Valentine Collins kneeling on the floor beside a bucket of sudsy water, gray sleeves rolled up and hands gripping a horse-hair scrubbing brush. In the corner of the room, a pair of cots had been pushed together and an equally identical pair of leather-banded trunks sat at their ends. The back door stood open like the front, creating a pleasant cross-breeze. “Good afternoon, Miss Doherty.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Collins.”

“I slacked on the house-keeping, while Cotton was ill. I’m trying to get everything polished up before he and the sheriff get back from checking over the storm damage. So?” He dipped the brush into the bucket and sat back on his heels, dragging an arm across his forehead. “How’d you like the old homestead? Ed told me you’d be looking it over this morning.”

“I like it very much. I’m hoping to purchase it, except…”

The deputy regarded her patiently.

“Mr. Ruiz said all of the furnishings would be included, and I needed to make sure there weren’t any heirlooms you’d like to keep. And… I had a question or two.”

“Well, to answer that first bit: no. There’s nothing there I want or need.” The finality in his voice didn’t encourage argument. “What’s your next question?”

“It’s clear to me that a lot of love and effort went into that cottage. Those painted cabinets. The carvings. A brand new lavatory. Why did your parents walk away from it?”

“They didn’t have a choice,” he said quietly, resuming his floor scrubbing.

“Is it… dangerous there?”

“No,” he said quickly, glancing up through the shaggy brown hair that fell into his eyes. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Mr. Collins, I know I’m a newcomer, but could you tell me—”

“They left to protect the town,” Val interrupted. “It was Fae business. And I’m sorry, Miss Doherty, but that’s all I can say on the matter.” Dropping the brush in the bucket, he pushed himself to his feet and scrubbed his hands dry on his trousers. “I hope you buy the cottage,” the compact deputy said earnestly. “It _should_ be lived in. And you strike me as the sort of woman who’ll appreciate its eccentric quirks. The only word of warning I’ll give you is to occasionally leave out a bowl of milk — the place tends to attract brownies.” He offered her his hand and she took it, squeezing gingerly as he pumped her arm. “And I’d be happy to help you tidy it up. The dust must be three inches thick by now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Collins.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Doherty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to dump out this old water and get started on the windows.”

Back at the Pax, she climbed the central staircase and walked toward the lavatory to wash up for lunch, lost in a thoughtful fog. Something mysterious had happened to Fergus and Bridget Collins, something their son was extremely chary of talking about. Fae business, to protect the town, he’d said, which was hardly an answer. They weren’t dead, she didn’t think, not from Valentine’s manner, but he clearly believed they were never coming back. How intriguing…

She was so wrapped up in these puzzling thoughts that she twisted the doorknob to the washroom without knocking, accustomed to it just being her on the upper floors of the Pax in the middle of the day. So when she stepped inside the steam-wreathed room and found a practically nude man standing in front of her, she stopped short with an audible squeak of alarmed surprise.

Jack Solomon half-turned from the mirror above the sinks, beard trimming scissors in one hand, and arched an eloquent eyebrow at her. Save for the short white towel knotted around his lean hips, he was as naked as the day he was born.

Unbidden, Annamaria’s eyes roamed over a tanned, well-defined torso covered liberally with black hair, the left pectoral marred by a crescent-shaped scar over the heart. The hairy arms and legs rounded by even more muscles. Shapely calves. And—

“Oh Lord, what happened?” she asked breathlessly, staring at the livid pink burn on his lower back that disappeared beneath the towel. “Were you hit by lightning?”

“No,” he said, offering no explanation and turning to face her fully, removing the painful mark from view. “Do you always burst into bathrooms without warning? If so, I’ll stop bringing towels.” His hand moved to the knotted fabric in a suggestive fashion and Annamaria spun around, blushing brilliantly.

“I’m sorry!” she told the wall. “I wasn’t thinking. I just came in to wash off the dust from my ride.”

“I hear you’re a divorcée,” his voice rumbled just behind her shoulder. She could feel the heat of him along her back like a pulsing wave; the man was a walking furnace. “Best kind of lady there is, save for widows. Bet you know all sorts of things…”

Despite ten years of marriage, Annamaria was essentially still a virgin. But even she could intuit the innuendo in that suggestive rasp. “I should leave—”

His arm stretched over her head, slapping the flat of his palm against the door as she tried to open it. “Why are you running away, Miss Doherty?” he murmured, lips tickling the curve of her ear. “Afraid I’ll eat you up?”

“Please, I need to go,” she pleaded in a voice she didn’t recognize, her body shivering. Not with anticipation or arousal — she _was_ afraid. Every one of the small hairs on her body was standing on end, panicked adrenaline flooded her veins, and the primal part of her brain was screaming a strident warning. That a very large, very toothy predator was far too close, reducing her from a confident woman to a frightened mouse.

Jack’s hand drew back and he stepped away, returning to the mirror and his narrow scissors. “Please knock next time, Miss Doherty,” he said in a bored tone of voice, as she wrenched open the door and sprinted down the hall.


	90. Chapter 90

“We should start in the back corner. Take it a small section or two at a time. Work our way around and to the front,” Celeste suggested. “That’ll be the least disruptive for the day-to-day business and customers. Then we won’t have to completely close for more than a couple days, when we repaint the walls and do the heavy furniture shifting. We’ll discount the old stock that can’t be returned, and whatever doesn’t sell after the first week will be given away. Whenever the weather is nice enough, we could set up tables outside along the promenade to display whatever items we’re in the process of swapping out, give folks a chance to preview the new and buy up the old. Tonight, I’ll have a word with Mr. Ruiz about renting the chandler’s empty shop, and we can move excess stock and shelving there to free up enough space to move things. I think we should hire at least two more people temporarily — one to help cover the counter and the other to help with the lifting and carrying. What would be the best way to do that? A sign in the front window, or an advertisement in the _Hawk_? Both?”

“…Oh, is it my turn to talk now?” he asked at the sink, rinsing the last of the lunch dishes.

Celeste rolled her eyes, stretching over the kitchen table to poke his arm with the blunt end of her pencil. “Yes, George, please answer the question.”

“Both. And before you hire anyone, I’d like to vet them.”

She nodded, hearing the unspoken words: _to make sure I can be comfortable around them_.

The three days of the storm, George had opened up ever so slightly to her; at least in regards to his mother’s message and wish. Since she had been desperate enough to reach out through Celeste, and because he had given her his word, he was going to make an effort to be around other people. To listen to his gift rather than ignore it.

It would be a slow process, of course — George wasn’t about to throw himself into a town party or have dinner at the crowded Pax. And he’d still be avoiding those who projected too powerfully.

But he was going to push himself to leave the store during the day. To initiate conversations rather than simply bark prices and totals at customers. To try and forge some sort of connection with his more tolerant neighbors.

“I’ll do that tonight, too, then,” Celeste said brightly, making a note on the pad of paper that was practically attached to her hand of late. She stood, pushed in her chair, and started toward the stairs only to stop when George called her name.

“You forgot your gloves,” he said, picking them up and following her.

“…Actually, I don’t think I’m going to wear them. For a while.”

His brow crinkled. “Why not?”

She hesitated. “I’m hoping I see something about Yvonne’s poisoner. Maybe, if I touch something he touched—”

“You’re asking for trouble. Chances are good you’ll just get bombarded with a lot of unsettling stuff that has no bearing on that.”

Celeste met his eyes, the ghost of a smirk creeping across her face. “George, are you _concerned_ about me?”

“What if I am?” he demanded gruffly. “You’re my employee. It’s natural for me to be worried about your well-being. You can’t work if your mind’s overwhelmed with visions.” He thrust the gloves at her.

Taking them and shoving them into her skirt’s pocket, she shifted gears abruptly: “Would you like to go with me tonight, to talk to Mr. Ruiz? His office is nice and quiet, and I doubt anyone else will be there except for his clerk.”

That didn’t sound too daunting — providing the clerk wasn’t Cricket Katz. Did that old reprobate still work at the Hall of Records? “…Alright,” he finally said reluctantly.

“We’ll go just before dinner. And after dinner, maybe we can all go on a walk? Ianto, too. Get some fresh air and stretch our legs before we dig into the renovations tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Going to the notary public’s was more than enough for one day. “Let’s get back to work.”

Downstairs, they found a surprising number of customers browsing the shelves, considering Ianto had flipped the sign from the lunchtime CLOSED to OPEN a mere five minutes earlier. Celeste swiftly wove around the newly delivered crates stacked in the back and hurried to the counter to help the Welshman with the growing line, while George eyed the crowd with trepidation. The store was rarely this busy after lunch, and everyone was talking so _loudly_ , relieved to be out and about after three days, eager to see other faces and hear how everyone else had weathered the storm.

“They sound like our flock in the green barn,” said a soft, amused voice to his right. George glanced over to find Soo Yin, the eldest of the Tran brood, scanning the labels on two different cans of turpentine.

In that curious fashion of fenghuangs — who were physically rejuvenated by their frequent immolations — the fifty-six-year-old Soo Yin looked outwardly as old as his father, Qu, though his face was far less weathered or wrinkled, and he wasn’t in the habit of walking around with taloned feet. He kept his black hair trimmed short above his ears, and he had a permanent faint smile that deepened the crinkles around his generous mouth and brown eyes. He strongly reminded George of a Buddha statue he’d seen in a book about Tibet.

“Do you know much about turpentine?” the Chinese man asked, tilting the cans toward him. “We’ve a mite problem with the chickens, and Father is making up a feather wash. I can’t decide which would be the better brand.”

“All I know is you should be careful about getting that on your skin before it’s diluted,” George warned. “That stuff’s highly flammable.”

Soo Yin’s enigmatic smile deepened. “Yes, that’s important to keep in mind. I’ll be sure to keep it away from Mother while her health is uncertain.”

“She’s not feeling well?”

“This nesting was hard on her. She was worried because Hua’s egg was so small. Since the hatching, she’s struggled to regain the weight she lost.”

“I have a recipe,” George said thoughtfully, “for suet cakes. My mother made them for the sparrows and songbirds in the winter. She had more than a dozen that would come to her bedroom window ledge every morning. They’re supposed to be good for energy, made with dried fruit and millet. You could see if they’d be to your mother’s taste.”

“Yes, that would be worth a try.”

A moment later, he was pressing a faded cookbook into Soo Yin’s hand. “Page twenty-one,” he said. “And there are a couple other recipes in here that might tempt her appetite, too. Just bring the book back whenever you’re done.”

“Thank you, Mr. Godfrey. It’s most kind of you.”

“I know how hard it is, to see a parent ill,” he said.

***

Grunting, Celeste leaned against the ladder and stretched her fingers toward the squat glass jar of screws that had been shoved to the very back of the shelf. “Almost… got it…” she muttered to Beverly Layton, standing below with arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. “There!” She pulled it out with a triumphant grin.

That quickly morphed into an expression horror as the jar slid from her dusty fingers and began to fall toward Mrs. Layton’s head. A strangled yelp escaped her, all the warning she could manage, before—

A large hand shot out and caught the plummeting missile, scant inches from connecting with Beverly’s up-tilting forehead. “Oh my God!” the woman gasped, stumbling back. “That could’ve killed me! You almost—”

“No damage done, no harm intended,” said the Good Samaritan, holding out the jar to the spluttering Mrs. Layton. “Just a little accident.”

She and Celeste both stared at the muscular man in unrelieved black, a pair of guns holstered at his hips and a disarming smile on his craggy face, a flash of pearly white within his dark beard.

“Who are you?” Beverly demanded bluntly. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Quite sure you haven’t, ma’am,” he said, tipping his Stetson at her. “Seeing as I just arrived in your lovely little town three days ago. Name’s Jack Solomon.”

“Huh,” said Beverly, uncharmed. She grabbed the jar of screws from him and shoved it into her basket. “I _know_ I’ve seen your face before. I have a very good memory when it comes to faces.” She glanced up at Celeste, still clinging to the top of the ladder. “You should be more careful,” she chided, sweeping her long dreadlocks back. “Next time, you could really injure someone! Clumsy, inept, foolish…” Muttering further disparagements to herself, she hurried through the store.

“Thank you,” Celeste said, the coppery tang of fear still sharp in her mouth. “A double thank you, since Mrs. Layton forgot to say it.”

“Not a problem.” He stood close — prepared to catch _her_ if she fell? — as she climbed down. “Hope the rest of your customers ain’t as acid-tongued.”

“No, they aren’t, thankfully. I’m Celeste Preston,” she said when her feet were firmly on the floor again.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Preston. Perhaps you could help me. I’m looking for some salve or healing ointment.”

“You’ve an injury?”

“A minor one. It’s taking a bit longer to heal than usual.”

“We stock cotton bandages and medicinal alcohol, but I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of ointments or medicines. Dr. Pendergast and Jenny East handle most of that. Doc’s office is just down Main, and Miss East has the cottage past the schoolhouse, the one surrounded by cats.” Celeste caught the man’s brief grimace and smiled. “Don’t like cats?”

“Never have, and they don’t like me much, either. This Miss East — she a hedgewitch?”

Celeste blinked, surprised that a newcomer was already aware of Hazeldine’s oddities. But then, she reasoned, plenty came to town with wide-open eyes, knowing just what to expect. “Yes. The best one in Hazeldine, in fact.”

Perhaps bad-tempered Beverly Layton was on to something; there was something strangely familiar about this man Celeste would have sworn she’d never met before. It niggled at her. Something about the shape of his face? His eyes? No…

“See something you like?” he asked pertly, and she realized she’d been staring openly at him.

“I apologize — just woolgathering,” she said quickly with a short smile. “Anything else I can help you find?”

Mr. Solomon’s eyes drifted over her shoulder, focusing on something behind her. “No, thank you, Miss Preston. Think I’ll just browse a while. This is quite a store you’ve got.”

“Just shout if you need me,” she smiled politely as he tipped his hat at her and brushed past.

***

He was here.

_In the store_.

“…Mr. Llewellyn?” Morgan Mayne’s slender brown hand cupped his elbow, startling him. The druid’s amber eyes were soft with concern — they had been in the middle of asking him for a pound of sugar from the giant barrel when he caught the scent.

“I-I’m sorry, Reverend Mayne,” Ianto murmured, fumbling for the steel scoop and small canvas bags. His hand shook, spilling streams of the sweet crystals that scattered across the floor.

“You stopped breathing, and you’ve gone white as a sheet. Are you alright? Maybe you should sit down for a moment. Can I do anything to help?”

“No, no, nothing, thank you,” he said quickly, handing over the bag of sugar. “Just, please, excuse me for a moment.”

His eyes darted around the store as he hurried down the lines of shelves. _Where was he?_ More importantly: _where were George and Celeste?_

The former he spotted near the apartment stairs, talking with Soo Yin Tran, calm and at ease.

But he didn’t see Celeste.

Panic blossomed like a fireball in his gut. Had he snatched her? Had he lured her outside and dragged her away?

“Well, well, well,” chuckled an unfamiliar voice behind him. He turned stiffly to stare at a tall man in black — a man who was no more a man than he was. “This is a helluva surprise. Never thought I’d find a Wulver here. Rather like finding a four-leaf clover in a haystack.”

Hot panic became cold dread. “Ulfhednar,” he said quietly in recognition.

The man in black grinned, flashing distinctive canines. “Good eye.”

“What do you want?” Ianto demanded. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t know what I want yet — haven’t had a proper look around. But I’m sure there’s _something_ … Caught wind of this place a couple weeks ago; been following my nose ever since.” He sniffed audibly. “Been here a while, huh? Your scent’s all over this place. And on that pretty Miss Preston, too. It’s faint, under the vanilla, but it’s there. She your mate? Does she taste as sweet as she looks—”

Ianto gripped the man’s arm, his claw-tipped fingers piercing the black sleeve and firm flesh beneath. “Leave. Her. Be,” he growled, teeth growing sharper around his tongue.

The other werewolf laughed with real amusement. “Or what? You’ll kill me, Wulver? We both know that’s an empty promise.”

Ianto said nothing. He glared coldly into the man’s laughing eyes, icy blue meeting warm brown, watching the mirthful light in them dim, the broad smile fading from the bearded face.

“…I’ll be damned,” the man murmured. “Maybe you would. You intrigue me, Wulver. Think I’ll keep an eye on you. See what other surprises you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“No. You should go. Leave Hazeldine, before I tell the sheriff what you are.”

The Ulfhednar edged closer, looming over him, George’s match in height with significantly sharper muscle tone. “Now _that_ is a hollow threat. From the way you’re so careful to keep your voice low, and how you’re glancing around to make sure nobody’s too close to hear us, I can see you want this little chat to stay private. You Wulvers — always so shy and apologetic, so eager to fade into the shadows. I’m guessing nobody in this town knows what you are. I’m right, ain’t I?” he drawled, the smile returning. “So long as you keep my secret, I’ll keep yours. How’s that for a fair deal? A favor for a favor.”

“I can’t trust you.”

He snorted derisively. “How unchristian of you.”

“You’ve already attacked one of my friends—”

“Then how’s this sound: you keep your mouth shut, or I’ll find out for myself how Miss Preston tastes,” the man snapped. “And your boss, too, for good measure. Stay out of my business, and I’ll leave you to yours. …For now, anyway. That’s an order, not a request, Wulver. Keep your mouth shut and stay out of my way.”

It took everything not to bow his head like a servant before a king. The urge to display submission was nearly overwhelming. Shame and fear, disgust and anger, roiled in Ianto’s stomach, a paralyzing and poisonous mixture.

He bit through his tongue and swallowed the blood as he watched the Ulfhednar step back and saunter through the store, to all appearances a curious shopper innocently admiring the wares.

Of all the breeds of werewolf that could have come to Hazeldine, why did it have to be a Berserker?


	91. Chapter 91

“He’s worried about something,” Celeste said after the shop was closed, as Ianto set off for the _Hawk_ office, the details for a “help wanted” advertisement and the money to cover it in hand.

“I noticed,” George replied, draining the last of his water and setting the glass on the counter. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

“Does he ever open up to you?” she asked as they strode down Main at a brisk pace, side-by-side on the promenade. “When I’m not around?”

“Sometimes. When I push hard enough.” George’s eyes scanned back and forth over the sunny street as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The hands swinging at his sides were clenched into fists. The shopkeeper felt exposed and vulnerable, even in the shadows of the business’ awnings.

“He’s so guarded. It’s like he’s ashamed of something, but for the life of me I can’t imagine _anything_ he’d have to be ashamed of. When you consider how thoughtful and giving he is.”

“He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known,” George added frankly. Focusing his thoughts on Ianto rather than the wide open space to his left helped him even out his breathing. “Not that that’s saying much, given my limited scope of reference. But still: Ianto doesn’t have a cruel, bad bone in his body.”

They reached a door painted a bright emerald green. A hinged wooden sign above it read **NOTARY PUBLIC/HALL OF RECORDS** in blocky gold letters. Celeste pulled it open before George could and held it with a smile until he grumbled and entered first, ducking his head to avoid the lintel.

A slender person with skin like white marble, tousled black hair, a chiseled jaw, and sharply defined cheekbones looked up from the front desk. Dressed in a masculine button-down shirt — the snowy cuffs secured by gold cufflinks — a red velvet waistcoat, and tailored black trousers, they also wore crimson lip rouge and golden teardrop earbobs. Standing, they held out a long-fingered hand bearing a prominent gold and ruby ring on the thumb. “Miss Preston, lovely to see you as always,” the clerk said in a husky voice, a sincere smile reaching their golden eyes. The black pupils that focused on George were a narrow, feline-like slit. “And George Godfrey! I must say, this is a _wonderful_ surprise. How many years has it been?”

“Twenty, at least,” George said through gritted teeth, grimacing rather than smiling and ignoring the proffered hand Celeste had just finished shaking.

“Is Mr. Ruiz in, Cricket?” asked Celeste.

“Yes, he’s in his office, finishing up some paperwork with Miss Doherty.”

“Guess we’ll just come back later, then,” said George, instantly turning to leave, only to stop short when Celeste’s hand caught his sleeve.

“We’ll just wait here,” she said smoothly, tugging her brooding employer toward the trio of leather-cushioned chairs angled in the corner. “Until he’s free.”

“I’ll pop back and tell him, if you’ll pardon me.”

In the space between blinks, the clerk did just as they said, disappearing from the room with an audible _pop!_ of displaced air.

“That would be a handy skill to have, hmm?” said Celeste, arranging her skirt around her knees.

“Huh,” scoffed George, gripping the arms of his chair. “Know how I met Cricket Katz? My father bought a decorative urn from a peddler. It sat on the parlor mantle for five, six years. One afternoon, I knocked it to the floor while I was dusting. And out popped Katz. The peddler had neglected to tell Father there was a sylph trapped inside.”

“Oh my God!” Celeste stared wide-eyed at him. “…Wait, I thought genies were the ones usually put into bottles?”

“Different branches of the same family tree. Seems it happens to both with equal frequency,” he said. “Anyway, I shouted, alarmed by the sight of a very nude stranger in my parlor, so Father came running with the fireplace poker from his bedroom. And Katz just laughed at us. They—”

He hesitated awkwardly, and Celeste had the impression he was hastily revising whatever he’d been about to say. “…danced about for a moment, clearly enjoying our shock, grabbed my gold pocket watch and fob, and disappeared. A few days later, Father hears there’s a sylph secretary working for Oliver Potherson, Mr. Ruiz’s predecessor. So he marched out to demand the rogue return my watch. And they played the innocent up to the hilt. Insisted that they hadn’t stolen anything. That they’d merely claimed a fair reparation for their unjust imprisonment, and that Father should be glad they weren’t the cursing type. Father said we had nothing to do with them being stuck in that damn urn, but they just smiled at him. That’s when he lost his temper.”

“Oh, no.” He should have known better than to willfully anger one of the fae, but then, from everything she’d heard, John Godfrey was even more bullheaded than his son. “What did he do?”

“Banned them from the store for life. And told them to stay clear of me—”

“—for the rest of _his_ life,” said Cricket Katz, reappearing suddenly in front of them. There was a gleeful smile on the angular, striking face. “You know, George, you’ve gotten even more handsome these past twenty years. You’re one of those mortals who ages like good wine. I’m more tempted than ever to kiss you—”

“Don’t. Come an inch. Closer,” George growled in warning, knuckles white around the chair’s arms.

“No need to worry,” the sylph said with a wink. Another _pop!_ , and they were once again seated behind their desk, gracefully arranging piles of papers. “I may like to steal the first kiss, but I don’t take a second without express permission.”

“Cricket, did you _kiss him_?” Celeste blurted out before she could stop herself, staring from one to the other in disbelief.

“The dear boy had just freed me from a dreadfully boring prison. Know how long I was stuck in that blasted urn? Eighteen years! I missed my nephew’s bar mitzvah! So, I felt the need to show my appreciation. And it didn’t seem to me that he exactly hated—”

“If Mr. Ruiz is going to be occupied much longer, we will need to come back later,” said George frostily, every word clipped short. “I left dinner in the oven. I wouldn’t want it to burn.”

“He’ll be finished in just a moment,” Cricket said, expression serene.

On cue, they heard a door open down the hall. The floorboards creaked gently with approaching footsteps. Seconds later, Eduardo and Annamaria stepped into view, a folder of papers in his hands and a ring of copper keys in hers.

“Looks like I’ve missed something,” Celeste said, taking in Annamaria’s flushed cheeks.

“I bought a house!” announced the divorcée in a burst of excitement that washed over George like a wave, leaving him tingling from head to toe. “My own place, Celeste! A place the Cold Fish has never seen, let alone touched!”

“Congratulations! I can’t wait to see it—”

The front door opened and Yvonne Bae entered, quickly followed by Hildy Gruben in a billowy carmine evening dress.

“Zane is coming home—” Hildy shouted at Cricket and Eduardo as Yvonne pointed her pencil at Annamaria and demanded, “Is it true you’re purchasing the old Collins farm?”

The combination of strident voices and palpable emotion buffeted George, who futilely tried to push his chair further back from the onslaught, only to strike the corner wall.

He was trapped. Three extremely loud women who projected the way prizefighters punched were standing in a physical wall between him and the door. For the first time in his life, he wished he had Cricket’s knack.

It was getting harder to breathe. Sounds began to distort, then the dimensions of the room, the world see-sawing between blurry and abnormally sharp, from dim to too bright.

_No, no, no_ , he thought with increasing panic as the pressure built inside his head. If it didn’t stop soon, he was going to scream, and that scream was sure to unleash the concussive power that had knocked half a street flat thirty years ago—

Celeste’s hand curled around the back of his wrist. Cool fingers stroked under the sweat-damp cotton cuff and across his prickling, overly hot skin. His attention shifted to focus on the inches of flesh she touched, the dry softness of her fingertips, the soothing sound of her humming quietly in the chair next to his.

The panic blunted. Began to recede. He stared down at her hand as if hypnotized, eyes glazed and face slack. Her palm slid over the back of his hand where it still clung to the arm of the chair; she squeezed it firmly, grounding him even further. He blinked, a small tremor coursing through him, and looked up to find her smiling reassuringly.

“Ladies, I need you to stop shouting.” It was stated calmly — Celeste didn’t even raise her voice. But something in the low tone pierced their babble and struck a chord in their subconscious. All three turned to look at her, mouths snapping shut. “Please be more considerate.”

Blushes of embarrassment darkened Annamaria and Hildy’s cheeks as they took in George’s flustered, uncomfortable anxiety, the sweat still beading on his hectic brow. Yvonne promptly flipped her notebook closed. “I apologize, Mr. Godfrey,” the reporter said, before turning on her heel and leaving.

“We will talk more at the Pink tonight, _ja_?” Hildy murmured to Eduardo and Cricket, who nodded silently. The madame held the door open for Annamaria, who whispered her own apologies, leaving with her keys clutched to her chest.

“Cricket, a glass of water for Mr. Godfrey. Or would you prefer a brandy?” Eduardo asked conscientiously.

“Water’s fine,” George rasped. His mouth felt like a desert, and his thirst was intense. He took the glass Cricket held out with his left hand, leaving the right in Celeste’s grip. The clerk refilled it once, then again. “…Thank you.”

“In the future, if you have any business you need to conduct, I would be happy to come to the store—”

“No,” George said. “No, thank you, Ruiz, but I’m trying to push myself. I can’t keep locking myself up just because it’s more comfortable. This was just… a little much. For a first step.”

“I see.” Eduardo pulled the third chair out and settled in it, bracing an elbow on the edge of Cricket’s desk. There was no question about asking them to move back to his private office. “What can I help you with?”

“We’d like to discuss the terms for renting the former chandler’s shop,” Celeste said, perfectly poised, outwardly unruffled by the narrowly-averted catastrophe. “For a year at least, perhaps longer. We won’t be selling out of the space, just using it as a large storage room, if that will affect the terms of the agreement or cost of the rent at all…”

George was content to let her hash out all of the details with the town’s record-keeper; he was just there to sign the lease and the promissory banknote. Rather than interject, or even fully follow the conversation, he instead concentrated on breathing deeply to calm his heart.

That, and the steady circular sweeps of Celeste’s thumb over his hand.


	92. PART NINETEEN - NOW HIRING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW FACES:
> 
> * Xiang Tran (Lucy Liu) - a fenghuang.

**P A R T N I N E T E E N — N O W H I R I N G**

“I’m courting Mrs. Carlyle.”

Leland looked up from cutting his sausage links, a bristly white eyebrow arching as he regarded his son. Several of the gremlins, sitting in neat lines on their own raised benches on the other two sides of the table, watched the two humans curiously, small jaws furiously chewing the diced carrots and radishes they pushed into their mouths with alternating hands.

“Can’t say as I’m surprised,” Leland said finally, the crows’ feet around his blue eyes crinkling. “I know you’ve had a shine for her for some time.”

“When you were courting Ma…” Caleb began, averting his eyes and busying his hands by slathering dark red jam over his toast.

“Well, we went for a lot of walks,” Leland said thoughtfully, setting down his cutlery and leaning back in his chair. “Talked a lot over cups of coffee — your mother loved coffee, so long as she had a dish of sugar to pour into it.” He chuckled fondly. “I made an effort to listen carefully to everything she said, so I’d know what flowers to bring her, what foods she was partial to, the right color of ribbon to buy her. She used to braid her hair into these beautiful crowns, all wound round with ribbons. Sometimes she’d put flowers in ‘em… Looked so pretty with her Swedish folk dresses…” The scientist sighed, crossing his arms. “Just be attentive, son. Do little things that show how much you care and how well you know her. Let her set the pace and follow her lead. When it comes to a relationship, the woman should be in charge. That’s the real secret to a happy marriage.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

Leland picked up his fork. “She’s a lovely lady, Caleb. I think you’ve made a good choice.” He stared down at his sausage, eyes suddenly solemn — but before his son could ask what he was thinking, he shook his head firmly, flashed a smile at him, and resumed his interrupted breakfast.

***

Celeste was finishing her last cup of coffee when the Pax’s door swung open and Ianto walked in, jittery anxiety radiating from him. “What is it, is George alright?” she demanded in alarm, nearly overturning her cup as she set it on the bar.

“He’s fine,” he said quickly, pulling on a hasty smile. “Just thought I’d walk you to work.”

Everyone present stared at him. Josie stood frozen in mid-pour and Annamaria paid no heed to her overflowing teacup.

“…Ianto, I can almost see the store from here,” Celeste said hesitantly. She could understand his wish to walk her back to the Pax at night — by the time she usually set out, the street lamps were turned off and the darkness could feel a little ominous.

But in the brightly lit morning? When the street was full of people? 

“Even so,” was all he said, eyes scouring the room. “I don’t see the new arrival,” he added after a moment, a sharpness to his voice Celeste had never heard before. “He’s staying here, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Josie. “But Mr. Solomon isn’t an early riser. He stays up late playing cards; he’s usually not down before noon. At least, that’s how it’s been the last three days.”

“Thank you for breakfast, Josie,” Celeste said, sliding off her stool. “Delicious as always. Alright, I’m ready to go, Ianto.”

Outside in the bright sunshine, she looked over at him sharply. “What about Mr. Solomon has you so nervous?”

“He’s dangerous,” he said bluntly. “You need to stay away from him.”

_That’s why he begged me to lock my door last night_ , Celeste thought. She always did, out of habit, as she’d assured him. “You know him?”

“I know enough.”

“Ianto,” she grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop beside Doc’s striped pole. “What has he done?” _Tell me and if it’s awful enough, I’ll slip something into his tequila tonight,_ she added silently, the old anger and determination kindling in her breast. In the space between heartbeats, she felt herself shift back into her old mentality, the hunter honing in on her prey.

It was as familiar as an old dress — and yet there was a sick twinge in her stomach, too. That was new. It couldn’t be disgust at the thought of killing the outwardly charming Mr. Solomon; she’d killed plenty of two-faced bastards over the years.

No, it was more fear than revulsion. Fear that she’d be caught if she acted so rashly; fear that Hazeldine would be horrified and turn its back on her when it saw what she really was.

But wasn’t she still here because she had resolved to kill Yvonne’s poisoner? That was the only thing keeping her here, wasn’t it? She’d already decided to move on the moment that task was accomplished — hadn’t she?

Ianto’s hand curled around hers where it gripped his arm. The rasp of his rougher skin over her knuckles brought her crashing back to present reality. “I _can’t_ explain,” he said. “Not right now. But everyone needs to be careful around him. We can’t let down our guards — but we can’t provoke him, either. People will get hurt if he feels threatened. For now, it’s best to just avoid him. Warn Miss Doherty—”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said.

When she’d walked by Annamaria’s door last night, it had cracked open as she passed. The pretty blonde had peeked out furtively and hissed, “Is Mr. Solomon still downstairs?”

“Yes,” she said. “Playing poker with Seung, the deputies, and Wint. He just ordered another bottle of tequila.”

“Oh, good.” And Annamaria had darted out of her room, bathing things in hand, fairly sprinting for the lavatory. Celeste had assumed she was being skittish because she was attracted to the man — Josie had told her there had been quite a bit of flirtation from Mr. Solomon during the storm — and now she was wondering if something had happened to make her _afraid_ of him. 

“But I think I’ll have a word with Annamaria when she comes in today,” she said as they continued toward the store. “She said she’d be in to stock up on staples and soap — she’s going out to the cottage tomorrow to start cleaning it up.” She squinted. “Who is that, talking to the Captains?”

“Xiang Tran,” Ianto said. His eyes were clearly sharper than hers. “The eldest daughter.”

“Oh, I didn’t recognize her in those clothes.” The petite Chinese woman was wearing what looked like — to Celeste’s eyes, anyway — long-sleeved black silk pajamas. The two times she’d seen her before, at town gatherings, she’d been dressed in bright red, high-collared cheongsam dresses, her black hair swept up with ivory and gold combs. Today, that hair was pulled back into an unadorned wilting bun, loose inky strands framing her freckled cheeks. Celeste had never seen an Asian woman with freckles like that before; combined with her smooth skin and bright eyes, she looked closer to thirty than her actual fifty. But then the Chinese and fenghuangs both were blessed with youthful longevity.

“Good morning, Captains, Miss Tran,” Celeste said. “You’re here—”

“About the job,” she interjected swiftly, pointing at the sign George had propped in one of the front windows the night before. “I don’t care what you pay me, or what hours you want me to work. I just need to get off the farm. _Please_.”

“Let’s go inside and discuss it with Mr. Godfrey,” Celeste suggested, unlocking the door and ushering Xiang inside. “Ianto, could you go fetch him? Miss Tran, why don’t you sit down here?” She pulled her usual chair out from behind the counter.

Xiang sat and clasped her hands in her lap, gnawing the corner of her bottom lip. The heel of her slippered foot bounced against the floor. Her eyes followed George and Ianto as they returned.

“You’d like to work here, Miss Tran?” George asked, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. _He’s immediately assuming a defensive stance_ , Celeste thought. _Not promising_.

“Yes, Mr. Godfrey.” The small woman took a deep breath. “…If I stay on my family’s farm, I’m going to go mad,” she declared with conviction. “Between the chickens and my mother, I’m on my very last thread of sanity. I don’t _like_ chickens. Smelly, noisy, nasty things. More feathers than brains. I can’t understand why Father loves them so much. I’ve wanted to leave for years, but there was always _something._ Father was immolating, or Mother was nesting, or someone had to look after Po, and then _Mother_ was immolating, or the damn chickens were sick and needed round-the-clock care…”

She took another long breath. “But I’m done.” A solemn serenity settled over her like a cloak, smoothing away the faint lines of displeasure that had marred her face. Celeste felt George relax to her left, his own breathing becoming steadier. “I saw your advertisement in the morning paper — just before Mother shredded it for Hua’s nest — and I’m taking it as a divine sign. You can pay me in rice noodles for all I care. I’ll work hard. I’ll never be late. And I’ll take any shifts you want me to take, morning, noon, or night.”

George was silent for a moment. He uncrossed his arms. “The work can be pretty physical,” he said. “There’s a lot of heavy lifting, especially as we begin the renovation.”

“Not a problem,” Xiang said with confidence. “We fenghuangs are very strong for our size. My grandmother once fought a dragon — and won.”

“There’s something else, too. It may sound like a strange request, but I’m in earnest about this. You’ll have to control your temper to work here. Your temper, and any other powerful emotions. If you find yourself upset, or angry, or even extremely happy about something, I ask that you step outside until the emotion passes.”

Xiang looked steadily at him, expression inscrutable but piercing. “You’re an empath.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” George admitted reluctantly.

“I understand, sir,” she said. “And I won’t share that with anyone in town. I’m not Yvonne Bae. I believe in the sanctity of privacy.” Her fingers reached for the looped bracelet of brown beads around her left wrist, toying with a red tassel. “In Buddhism, peace is a daily and eternal goal. It’s found in the mastery of the self, and by living wholly in the present. I do my best to strive for peace — and while I’m here, I’ll be mindful of how my energy affects others.”

She hesitated, cocking her head in a singularly bird-like fashion. “Do you know much about Buddhism, Mr. Godfrey? You might find some of its philosophy very helpful. Soothing. The meditation practices in particular. I’d be happy to translate some sutras for you.”

“Thank you, Miss Tran, that’s kind of you — and you can start today. Celeste and Ianto will show you what needs to be done. Ask any questions you may have. Lunch is at noon, that’s part of your pay. Is there anything you can’t eat?”

“I despise asparagus,” she said.

“Good, because so does George,” Celeste interjected with a smile. “…Where are you planning to stay?”

“The Pax, of course. I’ve quite a bit of savings; thirty-five years of wages from the farm. Why?”

“Because we just rented the old chandler building, including the apartment above the shop,” Celeste glanced at George, who nodded gruffly. “We’ll be using the shop for storage, but you’re welcome to have the apartment.”

“Not rent-free. Ten a month?”

“Seven,” Celeste countered.

“Deal. Alright — what’s first on the to-do list for the day?”


	93. Chapter 93

_Please, Doc_ , James signed. _I’m about to climb the walls_. _I have to get out of this bed!_

_Alright,_ Hermann replied. _You can have lunch out in the saloon today. So long as you keep to the wheelchair. After, I can take you out for a stroll up and down_ _Main_ _so you can enjoy the sunshine._

It galled James, how difficult it was for him to move under his own power. He couldn’t even pull on his trousers unassisted, and was forced to lean heavily on the Doc as the stout German helped him slide into the wooden wheelchair.

Five days and nights of lying in a bed swallowing pain pills that numbed his shoulder _and_ his head, leaving him drowsy and confused, had taken their toll on the sunbrowned farmer. Before this, he hadn’t been sick a day in his life. Clean living, his connection with the earth, and his natural heartiness were all the protection he needed. Now, his legs felt as weak as a newborn colt’s.

_Could you take me to call on Norbert Hogan?_ James signed once Doc had settled a blanket over his bare and bandaged shoulders; shirts were an unnecessary encumbrance for the moment, but the air had cooled enough since the storm that Pendergast didn’t want him catching a chill.

_I don’t see why not. But don’t push yourself too hard yet. If you feel tired, tell me._

The moment Doc rolled him out into the saloon, those gathered for lunch began to applaud and cheer. James grinned at the sight of his smiling neighbors clapping as if he was some decorated war hero, and lifted his good arm to wave regally.

Josie promptly brought out a tall glass of milk and plate of pre-cut pot roast and braised vegetables, set them before him with a flourish, and kissed his cheeks and forehead. “Hope you’re hungry, dear,” she said.

He nodded — since he’d refused the morning’s pain pills, his appetite had returned with a vengeance — and tucked in eagerly.

Sopping up the last of the brown gravy with his bread roll, James became aware of a creeping, tingling sensation between his shoulder blades. Someone was staring at him, and not just with relief from seeing him out and about again.

He looked up and around curiously, sapphire eyes landing on a dark-haired, bearded man slouched in a chair two tables over. From his leather boots to his shirt collar, he was dressed entirely in black. The stern face looked as if it had been carved from stone, and he stared openly at James as he lifted a cheroot to his lip.

Flashing the man a quick, friendly smile, James turned back to his plate. Swallowed the last hunk of bread and washed it down with the dregs of his milk. When he lowered the glass, the stranger was standing next to him, smoldering cheroot in one hand.

James looked up to see his lips form the words “…by the river?”

Tugging his slate out from where he’d tucked it beside his chair’s cushion, James quickly scrawled, _Say again? I’m deaf._

The man yanked out a chair and sat so they were now at an equal level. “Apologies,” he said slowly. “I’d heard that and just forgot. And that answers my question — I asked if you were the man attacked by the river.” Grinding the cigar out in the ashtray on the table, the man held out a large hand. “Blackjack Solomon, world’s best poker player.”

_James Campbell, humble farmer_.

Blackjack grinned broadly. “I like you already, Jim. How’s the shoulder?”

_Itches like hell_ , he wrote honestly.

“Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch. Don’t I know that… Lemme buy you a drink.”

_Don’t really care for liquor._

“Really? Truly?” Blackjack demanded, looking scandalized. “You ever try tequila?”

_No_.

“Oh, well, you must. Best nectar on earth. Mrs. Barton, two shots of my usual.”

Josie bustled over with two glasses, then hesitated when she saw Blackjack set one in front of James. “Not sure you should drink that while you’re taking Doc’s pills, sweetie,” she said to James.

“Alcohol’s medicinal,” countered Blackjack. “C’mon, Jim. Just one taste.”

James smiled and shook his head, pushing the glass back. Took up his chalk and wrote: _Thank you, but I’d really rather not_.

Blackjack sighed and shrugged, tossing back one shot, then the other. “Your loss.”

_A water, please, Josie?_ he wrote. The cook patted his good shoulder and gathered his dishes just as Rachel and Nova entered, saw James, and rushed over. Beaming with pride, Rachel set a large clay flowerpot filled with black earth and bright yellow dandelions in front of her father.

_For the bedside table_ , she signed. _Thought it would help you feel better._

James ran a gentle hand over the hardy plants everyone considered weeds, but which he and Rachel loved. Just that simple touch made him feel steadier and more like himself, as he sensed the buzz of growing energy coursing from the buried roots to the cheerful blooms. _Thank you, sweetheart, this is perfect_.

_Nova and I have tidied up everything at the farm from the storm, with Mr. Cotton and Sheriff Rosy’s help. The garden and trees are already looking better; there’s a bunch of new buds and leaves._

_That’s good. Doc says I should be home in another three days. If you need help with anything else, just ask Hank_ _Layton_ _._

_We’ll be fine_ , Rachel signed confidently. _Where’s Miss Lotte_?

_She’s helping Miss Doherty make her arrangements before she moves into the old Collins cottage. You two should get some lunch. Miss Josie’s serving her pot roast._

Rachel nodded, bent to kiss James’ cheek, and went to the bar with Nova to place their orders.

“Your daughter?” Blackjack asked.

_Yes. Her name is Rachel_.

“Pretty little slip of a thing.” He pulled a gold case from a pocket, removed a fresh cheroot, and lit a match head with the edge of a blunt thumbnail. After a couple puffs, he expelled a fragrant gray cloud and settled back in his chair, hands folded over his flat stomach. “You strike me as an on the level fella, Jim,” he said a moment later, removing the cigar so James could clearly see his lips. “Tell me: what’s the law like around here?”


	94. Chapter 94

“Before lunch yesterday,” Annamaria said quietly, while Celeste cleared all of the cans from a long shelf, stacking them neatly in an empty crate at her feet, “At the Pax. I went to the washroom to freshen up. I walked in without knocking; I didn’t even think to. And Mr. Solomon had clearly just stepped out of the shower. He,” her voice dropped lower, to a hoarse whisper, “made some lewd insinuations.”

Celeste stilled, and Annamaria was incongruously reminded of Abel’s hunting dog, who went rigid just before he leapt after something furry, hungry thoughts of blood on his mind. “Did he touch you without permission?”

“No. Just said a few crude comments. But — and I can’t explain this with any concrete details — something about him in that moment absolutely terrified me. I don’t know if it was his tone of voice, or how close he was to me. It just set off alarm bells inside my brain. My skin felt like it was about to crawl off my body.” The fellow New Yorker shivered eloquently. “I… I half expected him to _bite_ me. Isn’t that odd? A part of my brain was shouting ‘ _Teeth!_ ’ All I know is I don’t want to be alone with the man ever again.”

“I think that’s wise. You should always trust your instincts when it comes to men.”

Annamaria plucked at a fraying thread on a burlap bag of seed. “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

“I’ve known a lot of bastards,” Celeste said frankly, wiping the now empty shelf clean with a polish-dipped rag. “Violent brutes. Dimwits born without scruples. The kind of monsters that find pleasure in hurting other people. Those sorts of men? Deserve to have everything they dish out served back to them tenfold.”

“Such serious faces — what are we talking about over here?” asked Leah Ginsberg as she rolled down the aisle toward them.

“Bastards in general, Mr. Solomon in particular,” said Annamaria.

“Oh, good,” said the potter. “Then I’m not crazy.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Celeste.

“Within an hour of Blackjack Solomon arriving at the Pax, I was convinced he was a jackass. But everyone else seems to find him _so_ charming. He’s got an intriguing face, I’ll grant you — I’m tempted to sculpt it, see if I can do that pugilist nose justice — and I’m usually happy to see another Jew come to town. But he’s a little _too_ ingratiating and ‘aw shucks, ma’am’, if you follow. There’s an artifice to it that smacks of manipulation.”

Celeste thought of his deferential behavior after the jar incident and nodded thoughtfully. “You’re absolutely right, Leah. You’ve got a sharp eye.”

“Of course I do. I’m an artist,” she replied.

No one would argue with her on that count; in a town full of witches selling charmed wares, Leah Ginsberg held her own without an ounce of magic. Every clay pot and plate and cup she made with her hands, a wheel, and a kiln. There were no familiars to ease her load; no be-spelled shortcuts to the finished product.

And some of her pieces — like the four-foot-tall dragon vase at the Jade and Pearl, and the dishes covered with cheeky cherubs that Hildy saved for special occasions — were so beautiful it was hard to believe no magic had been involved in their creation.

“I noticed Xiang Tran was helping Ianto carry crates across the street,” Leah said. “Does that mean you’re no longer hiring?”

“No, we’re still— did you want to apply?” Celeste blinked at her.

“Surprised because of my legs?” Leah asked dryly. “You can admit it, I won’t be offended.”

“No, I’m surprised because I thought you were busy with your pottery,” said Celeste. “The chair wouldn’t be a problem; the second position is for someone to run the register and man the counter. And Ianto always rushes to handle the heavy lifting, anyway.”

“This time of year, I have a lull in orders,” Leah explained, combing a hand through her loose, wavy black hair. “By fall, people start thinking of Hanukkah and Christmas gifts, and come spring, folks need replacements for all the dishes and pots they dropped over the winter. But right now, I’m _bored_. It’d be nice to have something productive to fill the days until things pick up again. I might not be able to work full shifts every day, and it would be strictly temporary, but for the next month or so I’d be happy to run the till.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go get Mr. Godfrey.”

She’d just reached the foot of the stairs when the sound of glass breaking and a toddler’s wail made her change directions sharply, hurrying to the front of the store. Mrs. Chandrabar — resplendent in a periwinkle blue sari, a matching scarf draped loosely over her glossy black hair — was balancing her crying three-year-old son on her hip and staring regretfully at the candy buttons smashed across the floor.

“Miss Preston, I am so sorry,” she exclaimed in her rich Delhi accent. “I looked away for only a moment. I should have known better. Abbas has been grabbing at everything colorful of late.”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Chandrabar. Accidents happen. How’s Abbas? Did the glass cut him?”

“No, he is fine, just startled. And ashamed, too, yes?” she said, bouncing her son gently. “Now you see, why we do not touch things we do not own?” She slipped into Hindi. The boy nodded, shoving most of one hand into his mouth and sniffling pitifully. Fat tears trickled down his round, brown cheeks. “What is the price?”

“Fifty cents would cover the candy and the jar.”

“Please, add it onto our tab. Again, I am so sorry.” She glanced from the nearly full shopping basket at her feet to her whimpering son. “I need to take him home. I will come back later for my purchases, if that is alright?”

“Perfectly fine. I’ll keep them behind the counter for you.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Preston.”

Celeste was crouched down, brushing the last glittering shards into the dustpan, when a shadow fell over her. “Seems you’ve got slippery hands, Miss Preston.”

She looked up at Mr. Solomon. With the midday sunlight silhouetting him, the only feature beneath the hat brim she could see clearly was his wide, white, sharp-edged smile. “This was a toddler’s doing, not mine,” she said, straightening with the broom in one hand and the glass-and-candy-filled pan in the other. “What can I help you with today, Mr. Solomon?”

Still smiling, he pulled a folded scrap of newsprint from his waistcoat. “Saw you were looking to hire more help.”

“We were,” she said, stepping past him and emptying the pan into the wastebin behind the counter. “I’m afraid we just filled the second position.” Maybe not officially, but there was no question of her letting Jack Solomon petition George for a job.

Why was the man so blasted familiar? Somewhere in the back of her head lurked an explanation, but the more she reached for it, the further it receded.

“That so? Hmm, what bad luck.” He arched his neck to peer toward the corner where Annamaria and Leah were. “Where’s that fella you work with? The Welshman?”

“Arranging things at our storehouse. He’ll be back shortly.”

“Ianto, isn’t it? Llewellyn?”

“Yes.”

“They sure have pretty names, don’t they? The Welsh. It’s a musical language. Always sounds like they’re singing when they talk. Celeste is a pretty name, too. Reminds me of a starry sky.”

“Thank you,” she said in that polite, yet flatly disinterested, tone she’d perfected over the years.

“Not one for chatter, are you?” Adjusting his holster, he braced a hip against the counter.

“Not when I have work to do. If there’s nothing I can help you with, Mr. Solomon—”

“How well do you know the people here, Miss Preston?”

“Fairly well.”

“You a local?”

“No.”

“How long’ve you been in Hazeldine?”

“A few months.” That crooked smile and lazy drawl were beginning to infuriate her. A prickly heat crept across her chest and up her neck. It seemed that while Annamaria’s system was wired for flight, Celeste’s defaulted directly to attack. “Is there a point to this interrogation?”

“When I come to a place like this, I like to get to know the people a bit. Hear their stories. See what makes them different from everybody else. I’ve met hoodoo doctors, and bloodsuckers, and all manner of shifters. Now I’m just curious as to how a beautiful lady like you ended up in Hazeldine, Wyoming. What’s different about you, Miss Preston?”

She shouldn’t have done it. Not when she was so angry and annoyed, not when she knew strong emotions amplified her ability. And especially not because it would answer Jack Solomon’s question.

But she wanted to wipe the smug amusement off his handsome face — and see if she couldn’t solve the mystery of why she thought she knew him.

So she reached out and grabbed his wrist, skin to skin.

The vision was short, sharp, and painful. She saw a crescent-shaped brand. It wasn’t glowing red with heat; it gleamed silver in the milky moonlight. She watched it approach with equal parts anticipation and revulsion, as the man holding it, a black bandana obscuring his face, pressed it against her exposed left breast. She felt a blinding pulse of agonized, scorching pain—

Jack Solomon yanked his arm from her grip with a twist and a growl. “Psychic,” he fairly spat, smile replaced by a dark scowl. “What did you see?” And she realized that he wasn’t just angry — he was worried.

Clearly, there were things in Mr. Solomon’s past he didn’t want anyone here to know about.

“How bad is the scar?” she asked sweetly. “Was it worth it? Whatever the hell you were being initiated into?”

Without a word, he turned and marched out of the shop, the door banging shut behind him.

“What happened?” Annamaria murmured, peeking around a nearby display case.

Celeste didn’t respond, mulling over the word _crescent_. Her brief vision hadn’t delivered the “Eureka!” moment she’d been hoping for; it had merely added another piece to a frustratingly murky puzzle, another detail that her brain _knew_ was important, but not why or how.

“She put the fear of Celeste in him,” said Leah gleefully, rolling forward. “Doubt he’ll be doing much shopping here. I’m really going to enjoy working with you, Celeste.”


	95. Chapter 95

Dr. Pendergast pushed James’ chair up to the gate in the waist-high, green picket fence that ran the full perimeter of Norbert Hogan’s huge garden. The old man owned a space large enough for two sizable houses just off Queen Street, and almost the entirety of his property was devoted to his vegetables. At the very center of the plot was a small brown clapboard house — really, a glorified shed — where he slept. Despite his advanced age, his days were spent digging and fertilizing and weeding and watering and trimming, and his efforts were undeniably rewarded: Hogan’s lettuces grew as big as boulders, his carrots were the size of logs, and just one of his potatoes could feed a family of six for a week.

While the Campbell farm, and those surrounding it on the outskirts of Hazeldine, had been left stunted and scrawny by the drought, Hogan’s was verdantly lush. Part of that, James knew, was the result of hard work: every morning, Hogan drew bucket after bucket from his well and painstakingly watered every bit of his garden.

But mostly, it was because — besides James — no other farmer in Hazeldine had a stronger connection with the earth and the plants that grew in it.

“ _Guten tag_ , Norbert!” Doc called, waving as the hunchbacked man looked up from sprinkling a shovel of manure at the base of several creeping vines. “May we come in?”

“Of course, course!” he smiled, showing mostly gum. Planting the shovel in the wheelbarrow, he shuffled toward them as Doc unlatched the gate and pushed James down the slate stone path winding between the beds. “Yer lookin’ fit as a flea today, Campbell. Want some sun tea?” He tugged off his gloves and hefted up a bottle from the end of a stone slab bench. “Here, let’s sit right here and soak up some sun ourselves, eh?”

“I’ll leave you gentlemen for just a moment — while I’m in the neighborhood, I want to check on Konrad Van Dieter and see how his cough is.”

James slipped his bare feet from the wheelchair’s board and pressed them against the damp, warm, black earth. Gently, he reached out and caressed the nearest root systems, savoring the hum of life he felt.

“Nothin’ else compares, does it?” Hogan said with a knowing smile, settling on the stone bench beside James’ chair. He, too, was barefoot and readily buried his toes in the dirt. “Nothin’ tastes sweeter, nothin’ feels better.”

 _Everything weather the storm alright?_ James wrote on his slate.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Peas got a little flattened, but they bounce back quick enough. Must say, real glad I don’t gotta haul so many buckets every mornin’. It was killin’ my poor back.”

_Do you need any help? Rachel would be happy to come over a couple days a week._

“Nah, y’all will be plenty busy on yer own piece soon enough.”

They sat for several minutes with eyes closed and faces upturned to the cloud-softened sun, comfortably basking. The painful itching in James’ shoulder slowly subsided, until it was something he could ignore. The weakness in his limbs began to fade; he still didn’t feel strong enough to walk, but at least his body no longer felt so heavy and dull, like a weight pinning him to the chair.

_< Want an extra boost?>_

James smiled and shook his head without opening his eyes. Hogan knew very well that — just by “speaking” to him through the earth, through their innate and compatible magic — he’d given him plenty. _< At your age, you should conserve your energy.>_

_< I’ll outlive this whole town, whippersnapper, and you know it.>_

Maybe he would; he was already twice as old as everyone assumed. James was the only one in town who knew Hogan’s true age or nature. It had been their little secret ever since he was a boy, when he’d first started to come into his witchery.

He had been only five or six. While his mother was shopping, he’d slipped away to explore and had found Hogan’s garden. From the first glance, he was convinced it was the Green Goddess’ bower, a place of magic, and he was so eager to touch the giant plants that he ignored the good manners Mrs. East had taught him, opened the gate, and walked straight in.

From the scents and colors to the hum of life he felt through the soles of his bare feet, James had been overwhelmed. There was so much, almost too much, and he sat down under a wooden arbor covered with vines, suddenly dizzy.

That was where Hogan found him ten minutes later, head resting against the arbor as the leafy vines curled around him like a mother’s arms. The wizened old man had crouched down in front of him with a gummy smile.

 _< Gotta be careful, young man,>_ he’d “said” in a wheezing voice James could almost hear, one that tickled his head the way the vines tickled his skin. _< Open yerself up too much, and Nature’ll fill you up to the brim. And humans can’t handle that much. Not even lil greenwitches.>_

James had blinked at him woozily, confused by the strange communication that seemed to echo up through the ground. He reached out to touch the old man’s wrinkly hand and knew instantly that he wasn’t a human. He felt like a…

_Potato?_

Hogan had laughed heartily at James’ obvious bewilderment, and then he’d gently unwound the vines busily curling around the boy’s arms and middle, coaxing them back up the arbor. Ruffled James’ dark curls, helped him stand, and led him over to a stone bench.

_< Are you afraid of me?>_

He shook his head.

_< You sure? I’m pretty strange.>_

James just squeezed his hand.

_< You’re a good boy. So I’ll share a lil secret with you. Have you ever heard of a mandrake? No? Thought not. A mandrake is a sort of plant that wishes it were human. And if a witch is the one to pull it out of the ground, it gets its wish. And if the witch is real kind, they’ll give the mandrake even more magic, so it can keep growin’ like a man would.>_

James pointed at Hogan.

_< Yep, that’s right. That’s what I am, sonny. A mandrake. A long, long time ago, I was just a lumpy tuber in the ground, like a tater or snip. A greenwitch like you dug me up to use in some spellwork, but decided she’d rather have a son than an ingredient. Lucky me, eh?>_

James nodded emphatically, leaning closer to hug the gnarled old man who smelled of black earth and green leaves.

 _< Such a good, good boy,>_ Hogan said fondly, patting his back.

In the present, James opened his eyes and turned to look at his oldest friend, hardly changed over the thirty years between then and now. There were a few more dark spots on his wrinkled face and bald head, and his white, wispy brows — rather like the taproots that grew from potato eyes — had gotten wilder. But his leathery skin still had that baked, reddish color, his large hands were as steady as ever, and the smile lines had only deepened around his deep set brown eyes.

_< They’ve been takin’ real good care of you at the Pax, but sittin’ a spell out here does you a world of good, don’t it?>_

_< Sure does.>_

_< …Got somethin’ on yer mind, don’t ya?>_

James sighed. _< Plenty.>_

_< Tell ol’ Norbert, sonny. A tater’s got lots of eyes, but a mandrake’s got better ears than a field a corn.>_

_< I’m worried about the wolf. Afraid it survived the river and we haven’t seen the last of it. Because it wasn’t just an animal, Norbert — I saw human-like intelligence looking back at me. But I don’t want to mention it, when everyone’s so relieved and grateful.>_

_< No sense worryin’ ‘bout the things ya can’t control. What’ll be’ll be. Easier said ‘n done, I know, but still.>_

James nodded pensively.

_< What else?>_

_< Nova’s asked for my blessing. He’s going to ask Rachel to marry him.>_

Hogan reached out and clasped his good shoulder with a broad grin. _< Knew it’d be sooner rather’n later! Congrats, m’boy.>_

_< You don’t think they’re too young? Rushing into things too quickly?>_

_< Oh, you humans and yer short memories,>_ Norbert chuckled. _< James, ya weren’t much older’n Nova Pendergast when you asked Cathy to marry you — true, she was eighteen, and Rachel’s sixteen, but still. And the whole town knows those two’ve only had eyes fer each other from the moment they met. It’s always been inevitable.>_

There was no arguing with that. And James knew Nova was a young man of quality, clever and good and sincerely in love with his daughter. It was just…

 _< You can’t make her stay a lil girl forever,>_ Norbert added cannily. _< You have to admit she hasn’t been a child fer a while now. It’s time to let her make her own decisions. And you know as well as me her mind’s been made up on that count for months.>_

With another nod, James tilted his face back up to the sun. _< I wish things were so clear for me,> _he admitted ruefully, “voice” faint.

_< How d’ya mean?>_

_< Norbert, I… Goddess, it’s pointless. It’s impossible.>_

_< As impossible as a plant turnin’ into a man?>_ Norbert nudged him gently but firmly. _< Spit it out, sonny.>_

 _< After Cathy passed, I never thought I’d feel like that again for a woman. And now… I find myself pulled in two directions. In two _futile _directions. For months, I’ve been telling myself it’s only friendship I feel. But that’s been a lie for a long while… >_

_< Yer talkin’ about Lotte and Rosanna, ain’t ya?> _

James turned to him with a resigned smile. _< I’m a proper fool, aren’t I?>_

_< From what I’ve seen, most humans don’t get to choose who they love. It just happens. Ya can’t fight it anymore’n you could hold back the tide or keep the moon from risin’.>_

_< I know nothing can come of it. And I refuse to burden _ _Lot_ _or Rosy with it. It’s just something I’ll have to carry, until I can find a way to ignore it… >_

_< Ignorin’ love is like ignorin’ a child — it’ll just lead to more pain and trouble later.>_

_< Maybe so, but what else can I do?> _James demanded. _< Ask them to break the oaths they made at their wedding? Ask Rosanna to change her nature? Just because I feel more than friendship for them doesn’t mean they should be expected to reciprocate. And I can’t bear to destroy what we already have. I won’t make them uncomfortable because I want something they can’t possibly give me.>_

Hogan sighed with a slump of his shoulders. _< S’pose I don’t have a leg to stand on here, never havin’ felt that sort of passion before m’self. And I know you always do the right thing, sonny. But I can’t help thinkin’ that things like this should be addressed, open and honestly. The truth can sometimes be a bitter pill, but it’s usually the right medicine.>_

The gate squeaked loudly and Hogan looked over, the motion directing James’ attention, too. The pair watched Dr. Pendergast approach with ready smiles that belied their current thoughts.

“Those lemon lozenges Miss East and I collaborated on are doing wonders for Konrad’s chest cold!” Doc announced cheerfully. “We will have to make extra batches before fall.” The rotund German blotted his perspiring forehead with his polka dotted handkerchief.

 _Let’s head back, Doc. I’m ready for a nap,_ James signed. _< Thank you, Norbert. For the energy and the talk.>_

***

Jack Solomon sat in the middle of the Pax’s bar, glowering gaze turned inwards as he smoked. For a brief moment, in between the lunch and dinner crowds, he was the only one in the saloon.

He hadn’t counted on a psychic living here; they were as rare as his kind these days. As rare as Wulvers — but then that discovery had been a pleasant one. For hundreds of years, Wulvers had loyally served Ulfhednars, Lycaons, and the various other were breeds, and each generation had been more subservient than the last. Until they died out, anyway, undone by that same sacrificial nature that had made them such faithful servants.

Or so everyone thought.

The Wulver, he could make use of. So long as he could get him away from that damn woman. From what he’d observed and overheard, the two were nearly inseparable and spent every waking moment together in that store.

What, _exactly_ , had she seen in her vision?

His initiation, obviously, but what else? His plans?

She couldn’t have seen any of the night Sheriff Turnbow and his posse rode into the canyon. The fire and dynamite blasts and gunfire. How Patricia had been hauled up into the tree on the end of a noose as Dalton was dragged behind two horses, then torn apart, while their seven-year-old son was beaten and kicked and called a “dirty little half-breed”.

Had she seen the blood-spattered ground and the greasy smoke, heard the shrieks as the blameless wives and children were massacred and abused and bound with chains and ropes?

Surely, she hadn’t seen how several of the men had transformed into hairy beasts with howls of rage, only to be cut down by barrages of bullets, showers of flaming arrows, lit sticks of TNT thrown with hooting laughter...

 _That motherless bastard, that black-hearted cur_ , Jack thought, the old fury still hotter than the sun. The urge to shift — to sprint all the way back to Nevada, straight into the Pollard lock-up, and rip out Turnbow’s throat with his teeth — was nearly overpowering. His hand around the tin ashtray clenched into a white-knuckled fist with a crunch, and he shivered as he pushed back the lengthening canines and claws.

He couldn’t Berserk here, not now; if he was younger, weaker, there would be no stopping the urge.

But he was nothing if not a survivor. He had made it this far through blood and tears, and he had developed something no other Ulfhednar had ever managed: control.

Jack forced deep pulls of air into his lungs, until the familiar prickling heat across his skin subsided. His heart settled into its usual slow, steady cadence. The teeth behind his clenched lips shortened and straightened into their old alignment.

And as the man overcame the wolf, he reminded himself: _Attacking Turnbow alone would mean death. He knows what you are; he carries silver in his holster now, barricades himself behind silver bars. Follow the plan. Use a proxy. Find a weapon he wouldn’t expect. You have to think of Freddie and the others — they don’t have much time left._

The saloon door swung open and Jack’s eyes flicked to the mantle clock behind the bar. Four o’clock sharp. Releasing the crushed ashtray, Jack straightened on his stool and stretched a hand out to drag another closer, swiftly tapping the fat column of ashes from his cigar into it.

“Afternoon, Mr. Alvarez,” he called as the banker settled on his usual seat two stools down.

“Afternoon, Mr. Solomon,” the dandy said politely, well-scrubbed hands folded in front of him.

Alvarez was so put-together, so polished, it was almost unsettling. There was something slightly artificial about him, as if he was an actor playing a part and wearing a mask. _Rich, Mexican, and queerer than a wooden nickel_ , had been Jack’s first impression of him. He didn’t give a shit about that last bit — he’d known plenty of good men who tumbled each other rather than a skirt, and had always figured that meant less competition for him — but the first could prove helpful, not to mention the fact that he held the keys to Hazeldine’s vault. So he’d made it a point to keep track of the banker’s routines and habits.

That hadn’t been hard. He was more clockwork automaton than man with his rigid schedules. He opened the bank at 7 a.m. sharp, closed it for a lunch break at noon, and re-opened an hour later. Then another fifteen minute closure at 4 p.m. for his daily trip to the Pax, where he drank a green tonic personally concocted by Lotte Barton. Back to the bank until it closed at 6 p.m., followed by dinner at the Pax. Then to his ground-floor apartment next to the Hall of Records until the next morning.

If Alvarez had friends or lovers, Jack had seen no sign of them. He didn’t play poker, he didn’t drink beyond his tonic, he didn’t welcome conversation or laugh or dance. Jack _had_ seen him talk with the pretty Miss Doherty twice before, in what he was pretty sure was French, but, having no knowledge of the language, he had no idea what they discussed. Surely they weren’t arranging a rendezvous, not with the man’s inclinations and Miss Doherty’s fine breeding.

“Hello, Mr. Alvarez,” the Pax’s proprietress said as she emerged from the kitchen, the green brew already in hand. “How has your day been?”

“Busy, Miss Barton,” the banker said, unusually animated. “I have been processing the transactions for Miss Doherty’s new home _and_ Mr. Godfrey’s rental of the former chandler space.”

“Y’know, Mr. Alvarez, I have a couple questions I was hoping to ask you,” Jack interjected, sliding down until he sat beside him. Close enough to catch a good whiff of the man’s peculiar tonic. _Hmm. Sheep’s blood, absinthe, sugar, periwinkle petals, powdered pumice and… Gold dust?_

Such ingredients meant Alvarez wasn’t human; the blood suggested shifter, but the pumice and gold was an odd combination. What sort of shifter would drink those as a health cure…?

“Yes, Mr. Solomon?” the banker asked between genteel sips.

“How much money would I have to deposit, and how long would it have to stay in an account, for it to earn any useful interest?”

He couldn’t care less about the answer, but it was just the sort of question that would make the reserved man ramble for a couple minutes — and give him time to think and watch. Unable to ask the people of Hazeldine what they were outright, he had to rely on his observations.

Alvarez had sharp canines. Rough hands, as he knew from a handshake, despite a soft desk job. All of his accessories were gold, and there was even a gold hue to the brown of his eyes. Eyes that seemed lit from within whenever he talked about money.

What shifter had rough skin, a fondness for gold, and needed to consume pumice daily? There was really only one answer to that.

“…does that make sense, Mr. Solomon?” the banker finished hopefully.

“Sure does, Mr. Alvarez,” Jack said with a satisfied grin. “Thank you, very much. Next couple of days, I might stop in at the bank to see you.”


	96. PART TWENTY - MOVING DAY

**P A R T T W E N T Y — M O V I N G D A Y**

“Josie, I can’t thank you enough,” said Annamaria as Seung Bae — conscripted for the day by his sister — Rosanna, and Bram Hawk heaved her trunks and new household purchases into the back of the Pax’s smallest wagon. Nova helped Rachel climb up, each toting large hampers of food for everyone’s lunch and to stock Annamaria’s new icebox.

The cook patted her arm. “Your first time setting up a house can be awfully intimidating. I’m glad to help, dear.”

“There gonna be room in that wagon for me and this housewarming present?” demanded an approaching Bobbie, carrying a large hatbox topped with a fat pink bow and a bulging bag looped over one arm. The skirt of today’s dress contained all the shades of an apricot, from yellow to a deep reddish orange, in overlapping feather-like layers; the padded bodice was embroidered with soaring pink birds. Bobbie balanced the hatbox on one flat palm and adjusted his broad orange silk hat with the other, cocking it at a jaunty angle that still kept the sun from his gold-painted eyelids.

“Auntie, you didn’t need to give me a present—”

“Sugar, everybody needs stuff they don’t need,” he proclaimed. “And never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or hatbox, in this case.

“Bobs, you’ll be no help in that get-up,” Josie chided. “You can’t scrub floors or wash windows in that.”

“I’m not coming to clean, darling, I’m coming for emotional support,” Bobbie said blithely. “And to brighten things up. I’ll keep everyone organized and on task.”

“So you’re going to sit in a chair, give orders, and drink lemonade while the rest of us work up a sweat?” said Seung dryly in passing, carrying baskets of food.

“As if you don’t like me watching you sweat,” Bobbie retorted, arching a significant eyebrow. “Here, put this somewhere safe,” he added, thrusting out his bag. Whatever was in it clinked audibly. Seung took it with a snort and shake of his head.

Yvonne arrived with a bundle of old newspapers bound with twine. “For washing the windows,” she explained as she tossed the papers up at Bram. “Don’t bother with a rag — nothing’s better for a streak-free window than newsprint and vinegar.”

“Really?” asked Annamaria.

“Really.”

_I should probably start writing all of this down,_ Annamaria thought, nibbling the edge of her bottom lip and rubbing a hand down the side of the unadorned green dress she’d purchased yesterday at Godfrey’s Goods. This would be her “cleaning dress”, the one she’d wear whenever she had to do grubby work and didn’t want to risk spoiling her finer wardrobe. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as her other dresses, but she had to admit: it was significantly more comfortable. She could feel the breeze through the light cotton and single petticoat, and it was far easier to settle in Brutus’ saddle without a bulky skirt.

“Ready when you are, sweetie,” Josie said briskly, wedged between Bobbie and Rosanna on the front seat of the wagon. At her nod, Rosanna flicked the reins.

“Wait! Hold up!”

The wagon rolled to a stop barely three feet down the road. Annamaria glanced back to see Nellie Hoobler jogging toward them.

“A couple charms that’ll come in handy,” the witch said, holding up a small leather pouch. “Put the snowflake one on the door to your icebox, that’ll keep the cold inside better. The gold broom goes on your fireplace mantle — it’ll stop the soot and smuts from clogging the chimney. And put the silver spiral in an east-facing window. It’ll repel any dangerous pests.”

“Thank you, Nellie. What do I owe you?”

“Three plum tarts will cover it,” the teenager grinned. “Hope today goes well. I’m sure Mr. Ingram will be happy to chip in if you need another pair of hands…” With a saucy waggling of her eyebrows, the witch hurried back to her shop.

“I’m afraid my paragon of a new neighbor won’t live up to my expectations, once I finally meet him,” Annamaria said as they set off again. “The way everyone keeps building up his reputation.”

“Trust me, Miss Doherty — no matter what your imagination has concocted, Em is even better in the flesh,” Seung said with amused assurance from the bed of the wagon.


	97. Chapter 97

“Who’s that?” asked Josie, squinting with a hand shielding her eyes.

Annamaria, riding beside the wagon with her face tilted to the sky to savor the sunshine, straightened and blinked away the red spots floating across her vision. There was another rider approaching at a steady clip on a brown stallion with white fetlocks.

“It’s Steele,” said Seung after a casual glance over his shoulder. “Must be his week off.”

The cowboy slowed to a trot as he neared them, and was quick to pull down the red bandana from his mouth and tip his black Stetson politely. “Miss Josie, Sheriff, Miss Doherty,” he said hoarsely, clothes and bearded face grimy from his ride.

Josie leaned forward with a pinched brow. “Pete, dear, you look absolutely haggard. Are you feeling well?”

“Just tired, Miss Josie.”

“Go on to the Pax and tell Lotte to mix you up a restorative. And as soon as you drink it, take yourself straight to bed. You have to stop working yourself so hard.”

“Thank you, Miss Josie. It’s kind of you to care.”

The blond cowboy glanced at the assorted faces and trunks in the wagon. “Where are y’all off to?”

“We’re helping Miss Doherty settle into her new house,” said Yvonne. “She just bought the Collins cottage.”

“Oh, that so?” he said faintly. “That’s nice. And how’re you feeling today, Miss Bae?”

“Me? Just fine, Pete.”

“Good. That’s good. Well, I best get into town before I fall off Trigger. Let y’all get going. Best of luck with your move, Miss Doherty. Good day, all.” Another tilt of his hat and the cowboy urged his horse on with a flick of his heels.

“Poor Pete,” said Josie sadly. “He’s carried a torch for Jenny for months, and ever since she levied her challenge he’s just been so hangdog. I think he feels guilty about pestering her.”

“That may be part of it, but I think the man’s genuinely ill,” Rosanna observed. “He’s lost weight he can’t afford to, these past few weeks. I’ll ask Doc to look him over tonight.”

Brutus chewed impatiently at his bit, huge hooves pawing at the grass. Annamaria stroked his neck but could see he was eager to stretch his legs now that he saw the open horizon. “I better give him his head, before he loses his temper,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Alright, boy. Let’s go.”

It may have been nearly two years since she last rode, but her old skills hadn’t rusted yet, and she easily kept her seat as the stallion galloped at a land-devouring pace. Two miles sped by in a blur, and she arrived at the Collins cottage — now _her_ cottage, she reminded herself — long before the others.

A hovering broom, tied to one of the hitching posts, and an unexpected pair were waiting for her in the front garden.

“Good morning, Jenny! Reverend Mayne,” she said, sliding from the saddle and patting her dress and windblown hair back into place, looping Brutus’ reins at the second post.

“I can’t stay,” the blonde hedgewitch said after bussing her cheek. “Too many things to do today. I just came to lay down fresh repelling salt around the house, garden, and dairy. So you won’t have to worry about any snakes creeping up on you. Also, I wanted to give you this.” From her basket she drew a large jar wrapped in newsprint and a twine bow. “Consider it a housewarming gift. There’s a note of explanation inside.” And with an enigmatic wink, she untied her broom, swung a leg over the yellow bristles, and took off with a gust of wind.

“Thank you!” Annamaria called, free hand cupped to her mouth.

“Well, _I_ came to offer my help,” Morgan said laughingly. “I live a mile that way,” they pointed, “in a bower at the edge of the Baron’s Ring.”

“The Baron’s Ring sounds magical — like something out of a story from King Arthur’s court.”

“It sounds more impressive than it looks: it’s just a glen surrounded by trees, with a small pond. There _is_ an outcropping of rocks that looks like a throne, though, and a leyline passes through it, so it’s plenty magical. Just not in a showy way.”

“Do you get lonely? Living this far from town?”

“Not especially. But then, before I came to Hazeldine, I was a hermit. So I’ve had several years to accustom myself to being solitary.” Morgan stretched out a hand to brush the new, pale green leaves of a nearby bush. “And as a druid, I’m never truly alone. I have a connection with the energies of the earth that always keeps me company.”

It was difficult not to stare at Reverend Mayne; their features were so striking, both handsome and beautiful, their dark, curly hair a voluminous cloud around their face and shoulders. The color of their skin was between Bram Hawk’s deep brown and Rosanna’s reddish gold, the hue all the more striking with the blue circles, dots, and lines marking their face, hands, and arms. Their slim wrists were made musical by a multitude of bracelets; their ears were pierced with studs of bone and copper. A large medallion hung from their neck, emblazoned with an ouroboros encircling a tree, and they moved with such easy grace, dressed simply in leather sandals and a white cotton robe. Somehow, they managed to be both otherworldly and familiar, pagan and sacred. Fitting, for a person who refused to be limited to a single deity _or_ gender.

“Do you enjoy looking at me?” Morgan asked lightly, turning and catching her gaze.

“I apologize, Reverend, I know it’s rude to stare,” Annamaria said. “But yes, I do. I like looking at beauty. And I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“We are all of us unique individuals,” they said. “But some are indeed stranger than others.”

“The blue. Is it tattooed?”

“No. It’s woad, a paint-like dye. Druids and warriors have worn it for centuries. It helps me connect to magical energies, spirits, the divine — but mostly I wear it for the same reason Bobbie Lacey dons his cosmetics: simple vanity. I may be an ascetic, but even I have my indulgences.”

It was so refreshing to hear a holy person speak in such a way, to meet one who embraced simple pleasures and didn’t roundly condemn innocent joys. Annamaria was still smiling when the wagon arrived and the rest of her helpers disembarked.

“Where shall we start?” asked Yvonne, hands on her hips.

“Seung and I will begin on the roof,” announced Rosanna. “Replacing those broken shingles. Rachel, coax the vines away from that window, and Bram, why don’t you repair the hinges on those shutters?”

“The kitchen needs scrubbed from floor to ceiling,” said Josie. “That’s the heart of the home. Can’t cook a meal in a dirty kitchen. Has Hideo checked the pipes yet?”

“Yes, yesterday afternoon. He said everything was intact—”

“Splendid. Then we won’t have to drag all the water up from the well. Morgan, Nova, you help me and Annamaria in the kitchen. You scrub the floor, you polish the table and chairs, you wipe down the cabinets. I’ll tackle the sink and stove. Yvonne, take down all of the curtains, wash them in this tub, and then hang them out on that line, so they’ll be dry by the afternoon — then clean all the windows. Bobbie, you are _not_ going to sit there like a pretty bauble. Take this bucket of rags and tin of polish and get started in the living area. Wipe down all of the shelves, the fireplace mantle, the chairs.”

“But Jo, I just repainted my nails!” Bobbie pouted.

“Then you’ll just have to repaint ‘em again tonight. Would you rather be down on your knees scrubbing the floors while Nova dusts?”

“No, ma’am, I would not.” Bobbie pertly plucked the bucket from Josie’s hand and bustled promptly over to the wall of shelves.

The morning passed quickly in a rush of movement, loud voices, and frequent laughter. Everything soon smelled of vinegar and soap and lemon polish. Josie briskly showed Annamaria the best way to wield a horsehair scrub brush — “Use this motion on floorboards and stone, this one when you’re pulling up stains from carpet or rugs.” — how to sweep a room with a minimum of effort, and how to build a fire in both the hearth and the bread oven. Rachel wrote down a list of food scraps that could be tossed into a compost heap and spread over her future garden, and a second list of things that should _never_ be added. Yvonne helped her carry out the old straw-stuffed mattress and replace it with a new one filled with goose down, then showed her how to use a washboard as they wrestled the sheets and quilt into the tin tubs.

By lunch, the double clotheslines were strung with flapping curtains and bedding, the roof had been repaired, and light flooded through the polished, unobstructed windows.

“It’s so nice,” Josie sighed as they sat in various chairs or cross-legged on the freshly scrubbed floor, eating their sandwiches and drinking glasses of lemonade. “Seeing this place bright and clean again.”

“I must admit,” Annamaria said, fidgeting in her seat. “…I feel rather like an interloper. Moving in and taking all of the Collins’ things.”

“Oh no, honey, don’t waste a minute more on that,” said Bobbie. “If Bridget and Fergs had met you, they’d both be pleased as punch that you were here now. There wasn’t a single possessive bone betwixt the two of them. They were the shirt-off-their-backs type.”

“And don’t be afraid to change whatever you want to change,” Josie assured, patting her knee. “This is _your_ home now, and you’re free to live however you want.”

“Honestly, I can’t think of a single thing I’d change right now. It’s all so lovely.” Her eye landed on one of the shelves. “Well, except for that vase. And maybe a different color for the curtains in this room…”


	98. Chapter 98

Later, while Bram, Seung, and Rosanna swept old straw from the dairy and Rachel and Nova weeded the front garden, Morgan helped Annamaria fold the dried sheets.

“I’ve been hesitant to suggest this all day,” the druid said, plucking clothespins from their mouth. “I try not to broach the subject of religion first, but: I’d like to say a blessing over the cottage before I go. If that would be alright?”

Annamaria bent to take up one end of the large wicker basket. “Just a general blessing?”

“Whatever kind of blessing you’d like.”

She hesitated thoughtfully. “Not a Christian one,” she finally said. “I used to be Catholic, but ever since my divorce… I just find I don’t agree with most of the things my priest preached. I can’t stomach the way the Church treats women. Or men like Bobbie. Or people like you. It feels wantonly cruel. Unfairly prejudicial. What do druids believe?”

“That humans can find wisdom and strength through nature. That the divine is earthly, and lives in every tree and flower and blade of grass. But sometimes you have to sacrifice a pig or sheep on a stone altar to keep the sun rising regularly,” they added off-handedly, grinning at her shocked expression. “But that hasn’t been common practice for _years_. Instead of sacrifices, we just drink lots of mulled wine and have sex under full moons. Makes you feel closer to nature _and_ your neighbors.” Their grin turned into a belting laugh. “Perhaps I should just stick with a general, all-purpose blessing, hmm? Or how about the Green Goddess? She’s a favorite among locals. A forgiving, non-judgmental, very open-minded lady.”

“Yes, that sounds good,” Annamaria said faintly.

Together they carried the basket of bedding past the teenagers in the garden, through the kitchen where Josie washed and Bobbie dried the porcelain dishes, and into the bedroom behind the fireplace.

“Oh, Yvonne!” Annamaria said. The pale-haired reporter stood in front of the tapestry, dust rag forgotten in her hand. “Isn’t that just _stunning_? I think that dragon is made of actual gold!”

Yvonne reached up to brush the dragon’s wing, just as Annamaria had the first time she saw it. “He looks so much like him,” she said faintly.

“What?”

Yvonne blinked. Shook her head. “…Nothing. It sure is pretty. Like something out of a dream.”

A sudden scream and clatter in the kitchen made them all jolt. “Get it, Jo!” shrieked Bobbie. “Ooh, get it, get it!”

“Calm down! My goodness, it’s only a little brownie — it’s alright, everyone, no need to panic, it’s just a brownie,” Josie called as Annamaria, Morgan, and Yvonne rushed out of the bedroom. She held up a glass with Rachel’s composting note slapped over the rim. What appeared to be a large clump of dust trembled inside.

“It ran right over my foot with those skittery little legs,” Bobbie said, fanning his face with a plate. “I’d like to see you feel that and not scream.”

“So this is a brownie.” Annamaria peered into the glass. Two mouse-like black eyes blinked back at her. There was no nose that she could see, and no ears or limbs, just a narrow pink line of a mouth beneath the eyes and a round puffball of a body covered with fluffy black hair.

Then, as she stared, tiny rodent-like feet stretched out to press against the glass and the mouth opened—

Far, _far_ too wide, as if the creature was nothing but pink gullet and pointy white teeth—

Before closing with a smack of its thin lips.

“Just a yawn,” Josie said. “They don’t bite, not so’s you can feel it. Actually, it’s not a bad thing, having a couple in the house. They mostly eat creepy-crawlies and dust. If you leave out a bowl of milk once a week, they won’t chew on anything valuable. And when they’re content, they make the sweetest burbling sounds.”

“It is sort of… cute,” Annamaria said, wrinkling her nose. “And Deputy Collins told me the cottage has always had some. Let it go, Josie. I’m happy to live and let live.”

The brownie rolled out of the tilted glass and scuttled under the china hutch. “They’ll hide until they get to know you better,” Josie said, dunking the glass back into the sudsy sink. “When Lotte was a girl, she kept one as a pet. Called it Elmira. Taught it all sorts of tricks…”

***

By sunset, everyone had gone and Annamaria sat alone with a cup of tea at her kitchen table, sore and grubby from the day’s labors but satisfied with the final result. All of her things had been unpacked: her books added to the shelves of the parlor, her gowns hung up in the wardrobe with a moth-repelling sachet, Mrs. Prouty’s recipe cards set on the shelf above the sink, right at eye-level and within easy reach. The house smelled and felt clean. A cheerful fire crackled in the freshly-swept hearth and the lanterns and candles had all been lit to cast a warm glow over the rooms.

It would take some getting used to — the unfamiliar space, the new routines, the quiet that was broken only by the whistle of the wind, chirp of crickets, and the occasional cry of a hunting bird or coyote.

But right now, in this moment, she felt content. Warmed by the goodwill of her friends. Protected by Nellie Hoobler’s charms. Soothed by her fragrant tea.

And, if she needed more soothing in the night, there was always the bourbon, or whisky, or sherry, or rye Bobbie had left. Her new Auntie had taken it upon himself to fully stock her liquor cabinet; hence the clinking bag he’d brought along.

Chuckling and shaking her head, Annamaria’s eye landed on the hatbox — which, it turned out, hadn’t contained a hat at all, but the peacock feather shawl she’d coveted the first day in Bobbie’s Bits ‘N Bobs — that sat at the end of the table, next to the still-wrapped jar from Jenny.

_I wonder what sort of herbal remedy she made me_ , she thought, reaching for it and carefully unknotting the twine. _Something to help soft hands develop calluses?_ She peeled back the newspaper wrapping to find pale pink pills, each the size and shape of a sunflower seed. _Some of her pick-me-up pills?_ Idly, she unfolded the enclosed scrap of paper.

_Annamaria:_

_These are my Pink Pills. Some of the ladies in town quip that they keep the blues away. One of these a day with a glass of water will prevent any_ little strangers _from arriving in nine months._

She paused, momentarily puzzled, before understanding dawned, along with a blush of embarrassment. “Good Lord, Jenny,” she muttered to herself. “Why on earth are you giving me a jar of these?”

_I know you’ve said you’ve no further interest in men and will be quite content to become a spinster. But don’t be so hasty to adopt a vow of chastity just yet; you never know what might happen tomorrow, after all, and a lady should be prepared for anything._ Especially _where you live now._

_Have fun, Jenny_

“That sounds rather ominous,” said Annamaria, standing and shoving the jar into a tall cabinet beside a pair of flower vases. “Think I’ll have another sandwich, wash up, and go to bed early tonight…”


	99. Chapter 99

Morgan Mayne strolled home at a leisurely pace, savoring the cool twilight and pausing often to pluck flowers from the verges along the dirt path, weaving the blossoms together into an impressive crown. All around them was the steady thrum of growth as the well-watered greenery sent out fresh shoots and fat buds.

A pair of hares lollopped out of the grass. The druid bent low to scratch between their long ears with a smile.

“Tell Val that Miss Doherty’s move went well and I send my regards,” they said, and the animals took off with energetic kicks of their prodigious back feet.

Darkness fell like a velvet curtain. The cricket symphony began to play, and the yellow backsides of fireflies flashed brightly as the insects hovered over the untilled fields in search of love.

The night promised to be calm and beautiful, and Morgan was content.

They started down the gentle slope to the Baron’s Ring with a light heart, their sandals slapping quietly against the packed dirt of the trail. Dinner would be vegetable soup with the last of the soda bread; then they’d take a cup of dandelion wine and sit outside for an hour or two to watch the will-o-the-wisps dance around the glen.

Or, that _was_ the plan.

Until they entered the trees and saw a visitor waiting for them, sitting stiffly on the tall stone beside the rounded bower’s entrance.

The druid quickened their pace. In the deepening gloom, it was difficult to make out the person’s face. “Who is it?”

“Just me, Reverend.” The figure picked up a lantern resting by their boots and lit it with a match struck on the underside of their heel.

The flickering yellow light revealed a face much changed since the last time Morgan had seen it. Features that had always been boyish now looked years older; a mouth predisposed to smile crookedly was now set in a grim frown. The soft, rounded chin was obscured by an unkempt golden beard. And the range-worn clothes seemed to hang off his shoulders.

“Peter Steele. You look—”

“I know how I look,” the cowboy said heavily, rubbing a hand over his blue eyes, knocking his hat back and scrubbing his fingers through the sweat-damp yellow hair.

“Have you been sick since the barn-raising?”

“In a fashion. Reverend, I have to speak with you.”

“Of course. Come inside.”

Morgan lit several candles and the pot-bellied, bow-legged stove. Set two clay cups out on the small table and filled them with hearty red wine. “Did you eat any dinner yet?”

“I don’t want food right now. I want to confess. I _need_ to.”

“Sit down. Have a drink first,” Morgan said gently, pushing the cup into Pete’s hand. The cowboy sighed but tipped it back, draining half of the wine in a single thirsty gulp. “Now tell me what’s troubling you, my son.” The druid sat across from him and took a deep breath, face settling into smooth serenity.

“Forgive me, Reverend, it’s been a year since my last confession,” Pete said with both hands clasped around his cup, quiet and resigned. “I have coveted and been false with my friends. I have lied by omission. I have harmed…”

He stopped, setting the cup down with a sharp thud, to bow his head and cover his face. “Reverend, I never _meant_ to hurt her,” he quavered, voice muffled by his palms. “I didn’t know it would affect her like that! If I’d known, I never would have…”

“Peter, what did you do?”

An anguished, tear-streaked face rose to stare back at Morgan. “I’m the one who put the passion potion in Miss Bae’s tea.”


End file.
